
Leaky Faucet

By N.E. Nugent
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or person, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © by Nadir Simmonds. All rights reserved.

In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at nugentxnation@gmail.com. Thank you for your support of the author's rights.

Word To Vince Publishing House
Prologue

1980 Election time

A park at East Queen and High Holborn Streets was crammed with Jamaica Labor Party supporters. Party advocates from the Southside section of Parade Gardens showed up in hordes to take in the words of community representative, Michael Stewarts. The steaming sun blazed down on the attentive multitude who gave the Member of Parliament their undivided attention.

"We will be setting up construction sites throughout the community so that everyone will have work!" voiced Michael Stewarts, garnering an eruptive applause from those in attendance.

Looking out into the crowd, the majority clad in green, he found it difficult to compress a smile. _I have everyone's attention._

__ "I know the opposition will do everything possible to destroy our plans, but I assure you all that they will fail in their attempts," he continued.

Positioned near Michael Stewarts, Natty Blacks paid close attention to the crowd ahead of the M.P. Throughout the gathered throng, he had cohorts stationed, prepared for _any_ prospective uprising from within the gathering. Seeing sure the M.P. remained safe was top priority. Anyone to detest the politician's presence would be eliminated. _Quickly_.

__ "I would like to thank everyone for showing up today. Southside will prosper, I can guarantee you all that," promised Michael Stewarts before making his exit.

Natty Blacks and four henchmen formed a tight circle around Michael Stewarts leading him out the park to safety.

Though many loved Michael Stewarts in Parade Gardens, many hated him, also, mainly residents of nearby Tel Aviv.

The six men made way to a yard at the High Holborn and Barry Streets intersects, which community residents referred to as _Super Stud corner_.

Finding a secluded section inside the yard, Natty Blacks and Michael Stewarts held a private conversation.

"Natty,' we have to keep the PNP out of the community. Robby and his Tel Aviv gang are going on too bad down on Rosemary Lane. Take care of him," instructed Michael Stewarts.

Natty Blacks listened to Michael Stewarts' decree, understanding the pressure the M.P. was under from higher ranking officials in his party.

"I will take care of him," he assured.

A broad smile graced Michael Stewarts' face. He was glad he could count on his number one Southside supporter, Natty Blacks.

_____

Robby walked along Barry Street moving for Rosemary Lane. A die-hard People's National Party activist, he _always_ represented the political party to the extreme. Draped in the party's official color, orange, from hat to shoe, he maneuvered through the mercurial slums of Central Kingston with not an ounce of fear. His rank as Tel Aviv's area leader compelled upon him the need to outlandishly reveal his alliance to the party controlling Jamaica's parliament.

Election time was in full swing bringing out political rival gangs from all walks of life. Receiving a cache of firearms from Tel Aviv's M.P. by way of an emissary, Robby distributed the weapons among subordinates to fight off the ruthless Southside gangs, who unmercifully terrorized the PNP's Central Kingston constituency. Given specific orders from rogue government officials to eliminate _all_ Laborites, JLP, of Southside origin, he gladly did as instructed.

Tel Aviv and Southside's rivalry heated up daily. Innumerable persons were snuffed out during the clash and murders continued to climb. Taming the conflict was far-fetched; things had spiraled too far out of control. Neither community was willing to resolve their long-standing feud.

Robby was at the forefront of the bloody battle, contributing to the demise of countless persons due to their political ties. He exhibited absolutely no remorse when capturing the opposition in his web. Tel Aviv was his only concern, nothing else mattered.

Making way onto Rosemary Lane, Robby noticed a small gathering holding court outside a yard he christened 'The Base.' Approaching the flock, he greeted everyone.

"What's going on?" he asked, noticing something was wrong.

"Boss man, they came on the lane and killed three of us last night," stated a youth with the gathering.

Enraged, Robby quickly ejected a weapon from his waist. He was aware of those responsible, instantly. _The fucking Southies_.

Immediate action was required.

"Get the guns ready. It's time to take action," said Robby.

_____

"They're coming!" shouted a Super Stud member, motioning at a large gang of Tel Aviv gangsters moving his way.

"Everyone, stand guard!" commanded Natty Blacks, stationed behind a wall along Barry Street.

Furtively positioned on the four corners of High Holborn and Barry Streets, Super Stud's main base, fifteen members of the outfit awaited the arrival of the Tel Aviv gang, whom they viciously ambushed the night before.

Robby led his gang into an unknown ambush.

"Super Stud!" roared Natty Blacks, giving his crew the cue to attack the Tel Aviv gang.

Following Natty Blacks' war cry, the Super Stud's surrounded the Tel Aviv gang from every angle, cutting them down one by one.

Guns of all sizes and sounds were fired, bullets penetrated frames of unfortunate victims. The scene was a massacre.

Robby promptly dropped to the ground. Angling himself in a defensive posture, he searched for a place to hide. The atmosphere was completely deserted, though, vacant. Only the fighters graced the pavement. Robby's gang fired the little weapons they had, which were clearly no match for the armory the JLP had given their loyal supporters. Hope of surviving the current ordeal seemed unlikely. He knew he would be killed.

Using a wall for cover, Natty Blacks watched as Robby kneeled and fired a pistol at the Super Studs. His gang was getting the best of the Tel Aviv boss' mob. Finally, he had Robby where he wanted him. Inching toward his longtime nemesis, Natty Blacks' gang covered him as he went in for the ultimate kill.

Striking the shepherd would scatter the sheep, the shepherd being Robby, who Natty Blacks had been fighting for years. The Tel Aviv boss terrorized Southside ardently. It was time to send Robby to his maker.

Approaching Robby from a rear position, Natty Blacks got right up on him placing a pistol to the latter's head.

"Don't move, pussy," he commanded, catching Robby by surprise.

Robby quickly spun around causing Natty Blacks to squeeze the trigger much sooner than anticipated, ending his archenemy's life.

The weapon's impact threw Robby to the ground where his head bled profusely, soaking the pavement beneath his still frame.

Hovering above his prized catch, Natty Blacks wore a broad smile, glad to have, finally, put an end to the reign of the Tel Aviv gang. Michael Stewarts would surely be proud, his friends in Tivoli Gardens would rejoice. There would be many accolades for his deed to the JLP.

Robby and his cabal were slaughtered in Southside. News of the Don's demise spread like a wildfire throughout Kingston, reigniting political violence that had weeks prior waned in certain communities.

The JLP won the general election that year, bringing many rewards to residents of Southside.
Chapter 1

Roger observed as a PNP procession bypassed his yard on Gold Street, thinking of how brave the adherent followers were.

Embroidered in their party's colors, the vibrant multitude outlandishly praised their political side of the fence.

"PNP JUSTICE!" voiced the crowd in unison.

At just 14, Roger was fully aware the current scene could quickly turn into one of mayhem. Vicious beatings and killings of PNP members was the norm on Gold Street, he'd witnessed his fair share.

Though Gold Street was somewhat of neutral grounds, residents on the drag pledged allegiance to Southside, where the JLP was advocated. It was _never_ wise for PNP affiliates to set foot on the particular street.

The current PNP presence was of an imperative significance, though. Certain members of the gathering held placards of three faces, three friends of Roger. He'd attended school with all three females, whom together were gunned down a week prior by alleged gunmen from Southside. Supposedly, their boyfriends were members of the Tel Aviv gang and affiliation cost them their lives. The PNP were now advocating for the capture of those responsible for the heinous act, who they strongly believed were being protected by the governing JLP.

Roger frowned before walking off inside his yard. It hurt to see his people maiming each other for politicians who truly cared nothing about them. He'd long ago made a vow to never become entangled in the web of either political party in control of his country. Learning of the injustice served upon his father- once an astute JLP supporter-by members of his own party due to his adamant stance against the higher ups, he promised to never get involved in what he termed the _shit-sym._

Roger was just nine years old when his father was blown to pieces by members of the police force in west Kingston, but remembered the incident like it happened yesterday.

A devoted JLP supporter, Roger's father fought political wars with the party since the 60s era. For his participation in countless frays, he and family members were awarded a place of residence in the then newly constructed Tivoli Gardens, a housing development built specifically for Laborites. Intermingling with community leaders such as Claude Massop, Byah Mitchell, and Jim Brown, he headed wars against PNP gangs, fiercely. The streets buzzed with his exploits, solidifying himself among the top rankings of Kingston.

During the year 1977 the mind frame of the typical political supporter confined to the ghettoes of Kingston, shifted, though. Following a mass murder termed the Green Bay killings in which a few Kingston sufferers were innocently slaughtered by soldiers apart of the Jamaica Defense Force per orders of rogue politicians, gang members began to gradually drift away, cutting ties with corrupt government officials.

Coming to the realization they were killing each other for politicians who truly cared nothing for them, gang members from both sides united, forming a noteworthy pact.

In pursuit of peace, leaders such as Claude Massop set the pace by completely disbanding from the JLP. Venturing into war plagued passageways and lanes of PNP dominated Concrete Jungle, at the time ran by the notorious Tony Welch, he was embraced with open arms by the opposition.

Everyone was for the unity.

Link ups began between prominent gunmen such as Bucky Marshall from PNP Matthews Lane; Liniments from PNP Tel Aviv; Rockeye from JLP Southside; Copper Raps from PNP Rockfort; and many more top rankings all throughout Kingston.

Together, the elite community leaders organized a concert in the name of peace.

Following an attempt on his life in his beloved Jamaica, Reggae sensation, Bob Marley, returned from a self-inflicted exile overseas to perform at the peace concert.

The concert was a success, but the peace ended almost right after the show.

Rockfort's robin-hood, Copper Raps, was the first to go. Murdered by a prominent figure from Kingston's criminal underworld, his killing was disguised as a police murder at Caymanas Race Track in Portmore, St. Catherine.

A devastating blow followed in February 1979 with the assassination of Claude Massop.

Heading home to his beloved Tivoli Gardens base, Claude Massop, the mastermind of Kingston's peace-treaty, was killed by the police. The murder of the Tivoli' general spelled the doom of any possible peace in the future.

Learning of the JLP's involvement in Claude Massop's death, Roger's father officially cut ties with the party. Moving his family out of Tivoli Gardens, he relocated to Parade Gardens in Central Kingston.

The higher ups disliked his sudden change of heart.

Heading home one day, he was approached by members of the Jamaica Defense Force. Showing no signs of resistance, he was _still_ shot and killed.

Roger vividly remembered his father's passing. He was young then, but old enough to realize he would never see his old man again. He never forgot the last conversation he had with his father.

"Don't ever get involved with Jamaica's un-loyal politics," said his father, accentuating the fact that once one was in, there was no way out.

Heading inside to a small room he shared with his mother, Roger lied on his bed and slept for the remainder of the day.
Chapter 2

"Errol, your name is being called a whole lot over in South," said Desmond.

Surveying the scene on Rum Lane, Errol penetrated every movement on the drag. His friend's caveat brought on an unpleasant vibe, but he held his composure, keeping a nonchalant exterior through hidden stress.

"Who's calling my name?" he asked.

"I was on Super Stud corner and heard niggas there talking about you being the Don in Tel Aviv. I also over heard that Natty Blacks is looking for you," explained Desmond.

"Man, fuck all of them niggas. If they want war, then so be it."

"I'm just telling you. You are my friend, it's only right that I keep you alert."

"I appreciate that, Dezzie. But I'm going to make a quick move. I will see."

Walking off on Desmond, Errol made way a street over onto Rosemary Lane. Journeying to his quarters, he thought of Desmond's warning. It was no secret he was a marked man, Southside gunmen hunted him daily. At one point in time, such a thing would have been frightening, but he no longer cared. The assassination of his girlfriend and her friends brought on a different aura, his fear of going up against _anyone_ went out the window when his companion was murdered. _Straight_.

__ Errol, a tall adolescent, was the son of Tel Aviv's past Don, Robby. Originating from Matthews Lane in west Kingston, he and his mother moved to Parade Gardens after his father's passing. Memories of his old man had become an indelible mark in his life. He never forgot the days when his father would come out west to visit, telling tales of the ongoing conflict between himself and Southside gangsters.

Errol's mother would stress to his father that it would be best if he were to relocate to Matthews Lane where he would be safe. Southside gunmen wouldn't dare invade the particular lane, controlled by one of Kingston's most notorious gangs, the Spangler's. But Errol's father refused to abandon his community. He would not turn his back on his supporters, for this he was snuffed out.

In Parade Gardens, Errol linked up with Roger and Desmond. He and his friends roamed Central Kingston's streets together, without a worry in the world. He received funny looks whenever in Southside, though, but never paid the stares any mind. His father's past repute was the obvious reason for the extra attention. Once approached by a few Southside youths, questioning his reason for frequenting the neighborhood, Roger, who they all seemed to respect, came to the rescue. His friend informed the boys he was off limits to any form of disrespect. Since then, he remained cool among the youth in Southside.

During the year 1983 his point of view on things shifted. The JLP was in power and his Tel Aviv community was near to starving. His mother retreated back out west, but he chose to remain in Parade Gardens. As a youth, he rarely could go outside on Matthews Lane. Repetitious conflicts with the lane and other areas obviated that, thus, he preferred the circumference of Tel Aviv where he was able to roam more freely.

A friend from Matthews Lane stopped by from time to time, traveling out south-east to keep him company.

Mark, Errol's friend, was quickly elevating as a ranking in Kingston's underworld. At 14, he took a diving leap into politics, aligning himself with the PNP. Given guns to shoot up JLP areas, he terrorized the outskirts of Tivoli Gardens since he was unable to penetrate the communities well-protected entry point. On a daily basis, he attacked people from Tivoli,' the JLP's most dominant domain.

Hanging out in Tel Aviv, he preached about intended goods the PNP had in store for Jamaica, catching Errol's undivided attention.

Submitting to Mark's convincing dictum, Errol eventually joined the PNP.

Following his induction, he was introduced to a politician named Tony Smith, who was aspiring to rebuild the Tel Aviv community that had become a downtrodden, volatile environment. Tony Smith made it clear that he needed someone to take care of the JLP problem plaguing the community.

First consulting with Roger and Desmond, Errol was rebuked by his friends for entering the world of politics. Disappointed with their reluctance to accompany him on his political journey, he, nevertheless, took the giant leap alone.

At the time, Rosemary Lane, Tel Aviv's headquarters, was left abandoned. After the JLP took control of the government, nearly everyone departed in fear of losing their lives. The yard Errol's father once controlled, The Base, remained intact, occupied by a few of the gang's senior members.

Bringing his plan of rebuilding the community to the older men's attention, the senior Tel Aviv members warned Errol of the danger in taking such a step. None seemed to agree with his idea. Thus, he decided to take matters into his own hands.

Organizing a substantial amount of troops, he began his campaign in Parade Gardens, first attacking a few Laborites on Gold Street. He then brought his resistance to the Don of Southside, who made the mistake of riding a motorbike on Rosemary Lane.

Natty Blacks survived the ordeal, but the attempt on the Don's life cost the lives of three innocent females.

Reaching the Base, Errol ran into Mark and a cadre of troops assembled in the Tel Aviv yard.

"What's up, Errol?" asked Mark from the center of the amassed group.

"I'm cooling, family. What are you all dealing with?" asked Errol, wondering why everyone was gathered in the yard.

"We're going to light Super Stud corner on fire tonight," smiled Mark.

Errol smiled in anticipation of the mission that lied ahead.
Chapter 3

Natty Black' head rotated to the addictive sounds of Robert Nesta Marley blasting from a nearby radio.

"Until the philosophy which holds one race superior and another...inferior," sang Bob, quoting a speech once made by the past Emperor of Ethiopia, Haile Selassie I.

Natty Blacks was in a trance. His eyes rolled back in his head as he danced inside his yard. Smoking a huge joint and enjoying the cool night air, he felt nice, at ease.

"War...I say war!" he sang aloud, pulling on his weed and blowing large clouds of smoke into the air.

"'Blacks!" shouted someone.

Startled, Natty Blacks snapped out of his reverie. Focusing in on the intrusive force that interfered with his meditation, he realized it was his sister. _Fuck_! Had it been anyone else, they would have felt his wrath. Music was the only escape from day-to-day madness that encapsulated his life, so in private, he turned the radio volume up to the max and forgot about everything else clouding his brain.

"What?!" he barked at his sister.

"I need some money. Kenyatta is playing over in Rae Town tonight and I would like to go."

Natty Blacks took out a coil of money and pealed-off a few notes. Handing his sister the cash, he stormed out the yard onto High Holborn Street where a group of men were out laughing and talking.

"What are you all laughing about?" he asked.

"Yo, Don, you had to see how I chased that Spangler nigga, Mark, out of the community. He ran like a ghost was chasing him," laughed Joe Dog, a Super Stud enforcer.

Natty Blacks peered in the younger youth's direction, surprised. _These youths really think this is a joking matter._

__ Walking over to Joe Dog, he viciously slapped the boy across the face.

"You all think this is a game," he voiced, taking a pistol from his waist and aiming at the group. "You all have PNP down here like it's a game!"

The atmosphere became quiet and still, everyone stared at Natty Blacks with fearful expressions.

"I want every PNP member and associate dead! Go over to Tel Aviv and kill anything that looks like a PNP!" ordered Natty Blacks, putting his gun away and storming back inside his yard.

Heading to his room, he lied down on his bed taking in the air blowing from a fan. Looking around the room's four adjoined walls, decorated with pictures of friends who passed on, he let out a deep sigh. _A lot of them died young, man._

How had he made it so long?

Long before the community took on the moniker Southside, Natty Blacks resided in the area. Originating on Foster Lane, he and his family moved a street over to High Holborn, the latter being where he was introduced to politics. A neighborhood gang known as Skull was regulating the area then, but he refrained from joining forces with the popular JLP gang. Instead, he linked up with the neighborhood's Super Stud crew, who were close allies of the Skull gang, anyway.

The older guys in the crew would give him guns and he would put them to use, mainly on the Tel Aviv gang. He gave none of his enemies the chance to recoup; everyday there was a new mission to take on. Killing became an innate ability. He had no problem taking someone's, anyone's life. His bold actions began to take a toll, though. So much that he had to leave Southside for Lazarus Lane in Tivoli Gardens. A friend invited him into the community, which was somewhat of a safe haven for wanted men.

While in Tivoli,' he became good friends with many legendary figures.

A waging war involving Tivoli Gardens and Matthews Lane was brewing during the time. Tivoli' men killed a prominent Don from Matthews Lane leading up to the one of the bloodiest wars in Jamaica's history.

Natty Blacks wasted no time getting involved in the fray. Aligning himself with Tivoli Gardens, he took on the Spangler gang wholeheartedly. His repute became so striking among the populace during the clash that certain politicians requested his assistance in penetrating Central Kingston, his hometown.

A JLP politician looking to be elected for Southside's M.P. position, Michael Stewarts, approached Natty Blacks in Tivoli' with a proposition. By then the deadly police force was eager to kill him. He saw no sense in returning to a place that could not safeguard him from detriment. Michael Stewarts, however, changed his view on things by guaranteeing him protection from the police force while in Southside. The politician also promised bulks of money for his assistance in keeping Southside PNP free and seeing sure community residents voted for him, and only him, come election time.

Seventeen at the time, Natty Blacks found Michael Stewarts offer hard to refuse. This was the meal ticket he'd been waiting for. He agreed to the politicians offer.

Under the sponsorship of Michael Stewarts, Natty Blacks returned to Southside. His Super Stud cronies placed him at the helm of things, glad to receive firepower he brought back to the community. His name had grown so popular in Kingston that the entire Southside willingly bowed to him. He met no resistance in his return.

The Skull gang still functioned along Laws Street, the Renkers held down the fort on Fleet, but _everyone_ reported to Natty Blacks.

Natty Blacks and his gang attacked Tel Aviv around the clock. He ambushed cadres of PNP supporters in nearby Spoilers, totally dismantling their gatherings. He was so obdurate in feats that he had to, once again, retreat to Tivoli Gardens. However, this time around, he called the shots in Southside from the distance of west Kingston.

During the advent of 1980's bloody election, he moved back into Southside. He knew the JLP would win and no longer needed to hide from the police, who would be under his party's control. The pressure he applied in Southside would be talked about for years.

Natty Blacks drifted off to sleep with a hand palming his gun, the way he slept for the past ten years, trusting no one.
Chapter 4

Desmond departed the Super Stud corner piqued, offended by Natty Blacks' blatant disrespect, that he was unfortunately present for. The current Super Stud crew-chiefly contemporaries-were a disappointment. None took a stand against the injustice Natty Blacks inflicted upon them. _I can't fuck with niggas like that._

__ Desmond walked to Roger's yard on Gold Street. He felt the need to speak with his friend about what transpired. Entering Roger's yard, he noticed a naked boy running back and forth along a narrow pathway leading to the back potion of the yard. Upon closer observation, he saw that the boy was Roger's eight year old cousin, Kirk, who was caught up chasing a few ground lizards.

"Kirk!" he called out, startling the boy.

Looking back at Desmond, Kirk called out for Roger.

"What are you yelling for?" barked Roger, walking out his room into the backyard.

Kirk scurried away at the sight of his cousin.

"Roger, what's good?" Desmond extended his hand for a pound.

Roger smiled when seeing his friend. Giving Desmond a pound, he motioned for the other boy to follow him inside the room he shared with his mother.

The two boys sat down to talk.

"What's happening?" asked Roger.

"Yo, I just left the Super Stud corner and that clown Natty Blacks pulled a gun on me and the rest of niggas out there," fumed Desmond, still upset about what had taken place.

"Why did he do that?"

"He said there's too much PNP running around the area and that niggas out here is taking things for a joke."

Desmond's information made Roger boil inside. He thought of friends who were on the path of destruction due to political friction, the hell they endured. He considered them all fools, but still felt a twitch of pity for them, for they knew no better.

"Dezzie, stay clear of that corner. As long as he doesn't come around here with his shit, everything should be okay."

"Nah, Roger. It's time to take a stand. That nigga fucked South up, man. I'm going to check Errol," protested Desmond.

Roger could see the fire in his friend's eyes. Desmond was hurt by the infraction, he knew, but by going to Errol would be going against their previous castigation of politics. Furthermore, Errol had reached the status of Southside's most-wanted; the Laborites wanted his blood, along with the blood of his associates. Desmond would be making a dire mistake by going to Errol for assistance.

"Dezzie, think about what you are doing, rude boy," he said. "I think you should just chill out."

"I've made up my mind, Roger," flatly stated Desmond, rising to his feet. "I'm a see you later."

Roger watched his friend leave. He wanted to pursue the other boy, but decided not to, settling on waiting things out.

_____

A large cadre of Tel Aviv gang members stood in the center of Rosemary Lane. Everyone present held a firearm; the multitude was equipped for the daring mission that lied ahead. A reconnaissance informed the congregation that the Super Stud' were out on their corner. Now was time to move ahead with the plan.

Errol and Mark instructed everyone to move out. The two led the throng onto Laws Street moving for High Holborn four drags away.

At Gold Street Errol noticed Desmond, who stopped in his tracks when seeing the Tel Aviv gangsters.

"PNP!" shouted the group when seeing Desmond.

"Easy!" voiced Errol signaling for his crew to stand back.

The gang watched Desmond with anxious eyes.

"Dezzie, get off the streets," warned Errol. "We're burning Super Stud down tonight."

"I was coming to see you," said Desmond nervously, looking around at the stone-cold faces of the ostensible PNP drove behind Errol, all of whom had guns exposed.

"Just go to your yard," said Errol. "We will link another time."

The group proceeded pass Desmond. Some stared him down as they walked by. He recognized a few faces, the majority originating from out west. Instead of heading home, he detoured to Roger's yard to explain what he witnessed.

Chapter 5

Loud explosions awakened Natty Blacks from a semi-deep sleep. Jumping to his feet, he assumed a crouched posture while keeping a firm grip on his gun.

A loud crash accompanied by running foot-steps resonated.

Natty Blacks noticed strange people were in his yard. From his vantage point, he could see a few men but they could not see him. His wild, long locks covered a partial portion of his face, his eyes glowed red with hatred as he watched the men in his yard. He stood behind a wall to not be noticed by the obvious gunmen who'd elevated in numbers. Thinking about the possibility of his sister being inside her room, he swiftly stepped into view catching the gunmen by surprise. Firing a few rounds at the intruders, he ran back behind the wall.

"Aaaagh!" cried out a few voices that had apparently picked up slugs from Natty Blacks' discharged weapon.

"The pussy is in that room over there. Shoot in that direction!" shouted someone.

A slug crashed through a wall just above Natty Blacks' head. He jumped behind a couch for cover. Discharged firearms resonated louder than thunder. He fired back at the men, but stopped short when realizing the gunmen retreated. Waiting until the coast was clear for sure, he rose to his feet. He then cautiously walked out into the open yard.

On the ground lied a lone figure, a fair complexioned male.

Checking his sister's room, Natty Blacks noticed it was empty. His heart raced while thinking his sister may have been abducted. Then he remembered he'd given her money to attend a party in Rae Town. _Thank you, Jah!_

Moving back to the obvious dead male, he looked closely to see if he recognized the individual. The male looked vaguely familiar but he could not pin-point from where he knew the individual. He did, however, catch a glimpse of one of the gunmen, who he recognized from seeing in Tel Aviv.

Walking out onto High Holborn Street, his heart jolted at the disturbing sight. Motionless bodies of his soldiers crowded the ground. _Jah know._

In a state of distraught, he walked to East Queen Street where he hailed a cab.

_____

Roger and Desmond stood on Gold Street observing as Errol and crew ran by Barry Street in a celerity manner and as policemen from the street's station ran out to confront the running horde.

Errol and his gang fired at the officers sending them running back inside their quarters.

"Oh shit, Roger! Errol and his crew finished Super Stud. You heard all of them gunshots?" asked Desmond excitedly.

Roger shook his head. He heard every single shot. _Errol fucked up big time, man._ No one from Tel Aviv would be exempt from what was to come, he knew.

"Dezzie, shit is going to get ugly out here. A lot of people are going to die."

Chapter 6

Michael Stewarts sat in his study-room going over a few documents needed by the Prime Minister for an upcoming state address; his job was to see sure everything in the document was intact. Engulfed in his work, the ringing of a nearby telephone took him out of his concentration.

"Damn," he grumbled. "This better be important."

"Hello," he answered the phone.

"Michael, it's me, 'Blacks," whispered someone on the other end of the line.

"Natty Blacks, is that you? Why do you sound like that?"

"I have to see you. I'm coming to your house. Tel Aviv has attacked," said Natty Blacks before hanging up.

Cradling the phone, Michael Stewarts stared out a nearby window in a trance, stunned by Natty Blacks' revelation. Just when the smoke seemed to have cleared, something terrible had to happen. _Damn, man._

Born during Jamaica's 1951 storm, the country's deadliest natural disaster of the 20thCentury, Michael Stewarts came of age along Maxfield Avenue in Kingston. Entering the political field at the ripe age of fifteen, he became a master at the art of politics. Majoring in psychology during his time of schooling, the particular skill intertwined well with future aspirations. No other subject caught his attention more than psychology.

Penetrating the human mind was his passion; he yearned to know how it functioned, why it functioned, and most important, how to be in control of its function. Esoterically experimenting on the populace during times of work, all of whom usually yielded to his trickery, he became a successful political figure in Jamaica.

Natty Blacks' disturbing call took him out his zone. Southside was clearly at stake, which meant his position in the community was in jeopardy.

The new pests in Tel Aviv were making things more difficult in Southside. Something had to be done to tame the current wave of gangsters rummaging through the community, and if Natty Blacks was getting too old for the task of eliminating _all_ threats to the community, Michael Stewarts would find someone who could. _Straight up._

Chapter 7

"Stay with him," ordered Constable Dignity, piercing a fleeing suspect to a crime along Barry Street.

Constable Dignity's partner skillfully maneuvered a service vehicle in high pursuit of the suspect.

Constable Dignity kept a close eye on the suspect who sprinted onto Matthews Lane. Inserting a bullet in his service weapon's chamber, he signaled for his partner to slow up.

Running at a steady pace, it was obvious something was wrong with one of the suspect's legs.

Alighting from the vehicle, Constable Dignity paid close attention to entry points of yards on Matthews Lane. He'd been in many a gun battles with gangsters on the particular lane, and was fully aware of the danger that lurked here.

Matthews Lane was one of Kingston's deadliest areas. Usually criminals from the notorious Spangler gang would be out guarding their sacred post but, oddly, no one was out.

Constable Dignity remained alert, still. Catching up to the suspect, who'd fallen to the ground, he towered above the man.

"Dignity, please don't kill me," cried the suspect. "I'm begging you, please."

Raising his hands to guard his face from the pistol Constable Dignity had trained on him, the suspect looked up at the cop with pleading eyes.

"You think I'm scared of Matthews Lane, you fucking criminal?" snarled Constable Dignity calmly, kneeling next to the suspect. "You thought I would have been scared to pursue onto the lane, huh?"

The suspect trembled in fear.

"You think I fear you Spangler criminals?" spat Constable Dignity, placing his pistol to the side of the suspect's head.

The suspect began to sob.

"Dignity, I'm begging you to spare my life. Just send me to General Penitentiary, please!" he cried out.

The suspect's plea for mercy fell upon deaf ears. Constable Dignity refused to spare the man, who was responsible for multiple murders in west Kingston. Pressing down on his weapon's trigger, his hand shook violently as the pistol roared to life.

The suspect's head exploded into pieces from the force of the weapon.

Brain matter splattered on Constable Dignity's face, yet he remained positioned near the suspect's lifeless body. He felt proud to have taken another gunman off the streets. _For good._

__ "One less criminal to worry about," he whispered.

Chapter 8

"Hey, boy, watch who you are talking to like that!" barked Cutie.

"Cutie, you have to stop being so sensitive," laughed Desmond. "You know I'm only playing with you."

Sitting outside their Foster Lane yard, the two went back and forth with jokes about one another.

"You play too much," said Cutie, playfully pushing Desmond. "You heard about what happened on Super Stud with Natty' and his friends?"

"Yeah, man. It's about time they ran that nigga from out of South," fumed Desmond.

Since the incident on High Holborn Street, it agitated him every time Natty Blacks' name was brought up. He held a deep hatred for the man and wished nothing but the worst for the Don.

"Dezzie, no one can run Natty' from out of South. He runs this," emphasized Cutie, giving her friend a serious gaze.

"We will see about that."

Desmond walked off on Cutie headed further down the lane.

Foster Lane was packed with neighborhood residents. Children, some literally naked, ran about with no shame on the narrow lane.

Nostalgia always came to Desmond when seeing such a sight.

"Crazy," he said to himself, laughing at the nude children.

Nude children moved about throughout the entire Southside. Caretakers of the young were barely able to afford clothing for themselves much less their kids. Poverty was a reality in Southside. The common dream among community residents was to make it to the great shores of America where things would surely be better.

Entering a yard along Foster,' Desmond was faced with the status-quo of every other tenement yard downtown Kingston: folks running about, children screaming at the top of their lungs, music blaring from radio speakers, yard occupants arguing over things usually of a petty magnitude. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, such was life in Southside.

"Patrick!" he called to a friend.

"Yo!" someone shouted from the rear section of the yard.

Moving to his friend's room, Desmond took a seat inside the cramped space.

"What's going on, elder?" he greeted.

Patrick, an elder from the lane, sat up on his bed to speak with Desmond.

"Nothing much, my little brother," he responded, handing Desmond a joint.

Desmond gladly accepted the joint. Smoking marijuana gave on a mellow feeling, one he loved. The plant calmed his nerves while taking him to a seemingly next dimension. Patrick's unlimited supply of the plant always drove him to the man's yard. Taking a deep toke of the joint, he blew a large cloud of smoke out into the air.

"What are you doing today?" he asked

"I'm heading out west to go and chill with my Laborite friends," answered Patrick.

"I want to come," insisted Desmond.

Patrick took the joint from Desmond and inhaled deeply. Blowing out fumes, he gazed at the boy through half closed eyes.

"I thought you don't like to be around politics?" he asked.

"It's not that. It's just that I don't like the way Natty' treats my friends, and how politicians lie to us," said Desmond.

"I hear what you're saying, but I'm not on what Natty' is on. And as far as the politicians, we don't have to worry about them anymore. We don't even really need them anymore; our friends in foreign sends us everything we need."

Patrick admired the boy's authenticity and inquisitive nature. The youth reminded him of himself when he was younger.

"So why do you all still call yourselves Laborites?" asked Desmond.

"Good question, my youth," complimented Patrick. "Well, an order was set before your time, before even my time. And certain communities will not go for anything else. Southside and Pink Lane are JLP strongholds, and even though politicians don't do what they say they're going to do, they still do something's, and the little they do sometimes help. Furthermore, since politics runs Jamaica, we would be fools to not get involved. So as long as I'm in Jamaica, I'm going to represent for the Laborites."

Desmond understood, more so now after Patrick's explanation. No one had put things to him as the older man.

Politics had always been a thing he and Roger disliked. Unlike himself, Roger was more knowledgeable of the lifestyle, due to his family's deep roots in the Jamaica Labor Party. He, however, only knew bits and pieces of the enigmatic world he lived in. Nevertheless, he was determined to figure things out on a full-scale level.

"I'm going to bring you on Pink Lane with me," pledged Patrick.

Desmond smiled, glad for the opportunity to get an in depth look into the lifestyle of political affiliated persons.

Chapter 9

"Why haven't you taken care of the child, Errol, rummaging through your community," asked Michael Stewarts, piercing Natty Blacks.

"I already told you that I've sent my guys for him many times," answered Natty Blacks in an agitated tone.

He was growing tired of Michael Stewarts' repetitive questions, but knew he could not protest. He was forced to tolerate the politician who'd done so much for him.

"So, what are you going to do?" asked Michael Stewarts.

The situation in Southside needed to be rectified, immediately.

Michael Stewarts would see things no other way. Complaints from community residents were reaching his desk, which meant the higher ups would soon be questioning his standings in Central Kingston. _I can't have that._

Natty Blacks honestly did not have an answer for Michael Stewarts' questions. The recent upsurge of violence in Southside was unlike _any_ he'd ever experienced.

Spontaneous attacks marred the community. Affiliates of the Tel Aviv gang from various outside communities, joined in on the fight to dismantle Southside. The odds were stacked high against the Southies.

"I have to defend my community," was all Natty Blacks could think to muster.

"Well, get to work," retorted Michael Stewarts.

_____

"Yo, nigga, where are you from?" asked a tall male standing with a group at Hanover and Laws Streets intersect.

Roger gave the male a questioning gaze before continuing on pass the gathering, walking for his yard a few streets away.

The group followed Roger.

Realizing he was being trailed, Roger stopped at Rosemary Lane and turned to face the horde.

"I asked you a question," voiced the tall male, getting up close to Roger.

"I'm from Gold Street. Why? What's up?" asked Roger, unafraid of the group's presence.

He recognized some faces in the group from seeing the individuals around the neighborhood, but was unfamiliar with the tall male, clearly the leader of the pack. He could not recall ever seeing the boy.

"What are you doing in Tel Aviv?" asked the tall male.

Roger was confused. He always took the same route home when coming from a cousin's yard on Georges Lane. He usually made it home without incident; the current situation was perplexing.

"I never knew I couldn't come here," he responded firmly.

"You don't know it's a war going on, pussy!"

The tall male swung a swift blow, dropping Roger on impact.

"What the fuck!" Roger muttered.

A vicious kick to the face took the fight out of Roger. A laceration appeared above his left eye where the kick landed. Blood trickled down his face from the wound.

The group encircled Roger.

"Pussy, Laborites are not allowed in Tel Aviv," voiced the tall male, bending down and plunging a knife deep into Roger's chest.

Roger gasped as the knife penetrated his flesh. He then curled up readying for another stab, but the group ran off. Struggling to his feet, he felt blood pouring from his chest wound. He held a hand over the affected area and walked for home just a street away. Before reaching home, though, he fell into a state of shock. Falling to the ground, a few present youths rushed to his aid.

Chapter 10

"Oh shit, Patrick, the guys over here has the place set up like a military base," voiced Desmond, admiring the scenery on Pink Lane.

Obvious gunmen secured the lane's intersects, solely permitting entry to residents and affiliates of the drag.

Though with Patrick, Desmond was giving a hard time gaining entry onto the lane. Following a body search, he was thoroughly questioned about his place of origin before given the okay to enter onto the street.

"Yeah, man. Wait until you see the base," bragged Patrick.

He watched as his friends gave Desmond a hard time, standing off to the side observing the boy's reaction to pressure. He wanted for the youth to experience, firsthand, the discipline his friends had. He had plans for the boy.

The two entered a yard on the lane filled with community ruffians.

"Patrick, what's happening?" greeted a man.

"What's happening, star?" retorted Patrick, giving the man a pound and hug.

Desmond was taken aback by the scenery inside the yard.

Complete order mixed with a tad bit of pleasure engulfed the atmosphere. Men sat in chairs strapped with assault-rifles, around dominoes tables. Case-loads of beer occupied an entire section of the yard, stacked adjacent a sound-system and huge speakers. Females in revealing outfits moved about while men stood around smoking marijuana sticks.

Desmond thought of how much he could get used to such a setting.

"Who's this?" asked one of Patrick's friends, motioning toward Desmond.

"This is my little brother," answered Patrick.

"Oh," said Patrick's friend, giving Desmond the once over and walking off.

Patrick introduced Desmond to the rest of Pink Lane massive and then showed him around. They spent the entire day on the lane before heading back home to Southside.

Chapter 11

Errol was highly disappointed with Mark for the gang's assault on Roger. When receiving news of the incident, he went into a slight state of depression. _Roger should not have been harmed._

__ He'd informed Mark of his friendship with Roger and Desmond, stressing that neither should be confronted, in any form or fashion, during the current war. Nonetheless, Roger was assaulted, clearly proving Mark held no regard for his friends. Thus, he made the decision to function as Mark, he would treat the latter's friends from out west just as his friend was treated whenever the opportunity presented itself. _Straight up._

Capturing Tel Aviv's desolate state at the Rosemary Lane and Barry Street intersect, Errol let a long sigh.

The community was in shambles. There was no disguising the poverty in Parade Gardens. Bullet pocked walls filled with gang insignia of the neighborhood outfit, stained each street. Living quarters surrounded by makeshift rusty zinc fences, seemed on the verge of collapse. The badly cracked, pothole infested pavement spelled eventual danger.

The community was in complete disarray.

Errol had never taken the time out to look into the state of the community until becoming involved in politics, everything before seemed so ordinary. However, being around Tony Smith opened his eyes to many possibilities, prospective opportunities.

The politician brought him to various upscale neighborhoods in Kingston's upper region, communities he had no idea existed, showing him-indirectly-the way a true Don should live. During trips to these serene environments, he thought of Tel Aviv, and how much he would love for his community to resemble the uptown communities.

Moving for the Base, he stopped when a jeep came to a halt across the street from where he was positioned. A lone occupant watched him from inside the automobile.

The individual then alighted from the vehicle revealing his identity.

"Fuck," whispered Errol. _Dignity._

Errol's heart exhilarated at the sight of the cop. This was his first time seeing the man in person, but instantly recognized the officer whom he'd saw in many newspaper articles. Aware of the cop's murderous reputation, he wasted no time taking a gun from his waist. He refused to become a statistic as many before himself.

Dignity, also, quickly ejected a weapon from a holster on his waist.

The steaming sun blazed down on the silent duo, the only persons currently on the lane.

"You want to battle?" asked Dignity.

"Anything you want to do," retorted Errol ready to do battle with the renowned cop.

"Today is your lucky day," smiled Dignity. "I'll catch up to you a next time."

Dignity got inside his jeep and slowly drove off.

Errol tarried until Dignity was completely out of sight. He then raced to the Base.

Taking out a handkerchief, he wiped perspiration from his face, which had accumulated heavily during the chance encounter with Dignity. Walking to a back room in the Base, he noticed a few of his soldiers sleeping on two beds that bedecked the room. None got up when he appeared. Things were far too relaxed. _I could have killed them all._

Heading back out into the yard, he took a seat on a red-stripe crate. Lighting a Craven A cigarette, he reflected on how stressful things had been of late. Tel Aviv had, once again, become a raging fire of a community. Dignity's presence in the area was verification of this.

Errol was now responsible for the safety of _all_ civilians in the community. Such a burden weighed heavily on his shoulders, but he felt obligated to serve the people. As long as he was around, he would stand up against any force for the people of Tel Aviv.

"Rude boy!" shouted Mark, barging in the yard.

Errol hopped to his feet and reached for his gun, pausing only when realizing it was Mark.

"What happened?"

"The Southies tried killing me on Foster Lane."

"Mark, what are you doing on Foster Lane?" Errol asked, confused.

Foster Lane was a deadly thoroughfare in Southside, frequented by tough characters from that community.

"Huh?" asked Mark.

"There should be no reason for you to be on Foster Lane," voiced Errol.

"I'm fucking a bitch from over there."

"Star, you have to be more mindful of your moves. The guys over there are hunting for us."

"Fuck them niggas. I'm a teach them to respect Speng."

"I said you have to be more mindful!" barked Errol.

The two looked in one another's direction with angry expressions until Mark sucked his teeth and walked off out the yard.

Chapter 12

Desmond had never been so proud of himself. His attempt on Mark Spangler' life gave on a feeling of accomplishment. Sighting the bold adversary on Foster Lane, he quickly retrieved a weapon from Patrick to defend his street against the enemy force. He'd never held a weapon prior to the incident but did a pretty good job at firing at Mark. Mark, unfortunately, escaped the ordeal, but he was happy with himself the same. He'd proven he was willing to take things to another level.

Patrick commended him for the courageous attempt at eliminating the thorn in Southside. As a reward for the deed, he was given the gun he used to fire at Mark to keep.

Tel Aviv's attack on Roger hurt to the core, Desmond cried when receiving the news of his chums near death experience.

People were being attacked for having Southside addresses. It did not matter if one was an actual participant in the bloodletting in effect. If one were from Southside, one was doomed. Tel Aviv hoods were on a rampage, capitalizing on their success of running the Don of Southside out of his own community, leaving the area without a defender.

Desmond yearned to fill Natty Blacks' void. He could become the people's savior. With a suitable amount of weaponry and Patrick's support, it would be easy to influence neighborhood contemporaries to join forces with him. If Errol could grow into such a dominant force in Tel Aviv, so could he in Southside.

_____

Shopping in downtown Kingston's Coronation Market was always a hassle, Cutie despised coming to the, forever, crowded market place. She hated crowds, and usually stayed away from them, but there was no escaping the trip to the market. Her mother demanded her company.

Spending near two hours in the market, Cutie and her mother began the journey back home along Barry Street. Both carried bags filled with goods, making small chat along the way. They discussed possible reasons for a few shootings on Foster Lane a week prior. One person was killed during one of these incidents directly in front their yard. Things were heating up in Southside and only showed signs of getting worse.

Cutie noticed a group a street up from where she and her mother were. Familiar with Tel Aviv and Southside's current conflict, she figured it best to take another route home.

"Mommy, I think it's best for us to take another way home," she warned.

"For what?!" spat her mother, continuing to walk on Barry Street. "You think I'm afraid of these little boys in this neighborhood? These guys have nothing on the guys from back in my day."

Cutie, reluctantly, followed her mother until reaching Rum Lane where they were stopped.

"What's up? What are y'all doing in Tel Aviv?" asked one boy, taking out a gun and holding it at his side.

Cutie recognized the boy, Errol, who was Desmond's friend. She figured she could prospectively calm the situation.

"Errol, it's me, Dezzie's friend, Cutie," she said.

"I don't know you," spat Errol, taking aim at the mother and daughter pair.

Tear's filled Cutie's eyes. Death seemed inevitable. She could not understand why Errol was being so cold. _He has to remember me._

"Errol, give them a pass," voiced a male with the Tel Aviv gang.

Errol looked back at the male and then back at the women. As if in contemplative mode, he looked from side to side then lowered his weapon. In a flash, he grabbed the groceries from the women.

"Y'all get the fuck out of here before I change my mind and kill y'all," he sternly stated.

Cutie and her now scared mother moved along in a haste manner, hurrying away.

Chapter 13

"The people of Southside are being preyed upon by Tel Aviv gunmen," voiced Michael Stewarts, addressing residents of Southside in a secluded area in the community. "But we must not back down."

Present among the community residents, Patrick and Desmond listened as the M.P. spoke, paying close attention to the politician's words.

"So, what should we do?" asked a middle-aged woman. "They shot my brother just last night."

"Just be patient, I will figure out a solution," promised Michael Stewarts.

"This nigga is a joke," Patrick whispered to Desmond. "Let's roll out."

The two departed, headed for Foster Lane.

"That motherfucker really takes the people for fools," complained Patrick.

Reaching High Holborn Street, he stopped to speak with a few Super Studs out on their corner.

"Patrick, what's happening?" greeted Dog Face, a Super Stud enforcer.

"What's happening, my Laborite friend?" smiled Patrick.

"Star, out here is hot. Tel Aviv is going on bad."

"We need to do something about that. What's good with Natty'?"

"The boss is lying low. I'm running the area now."

"Oh, yeah?"

Patrick was unimpressed with Dog Face's standings as a ranking. In his eyes, the boy possessed _no_ Don qualities.

"Yeah, man. We're going to make a move on Tel Aviv later tonight," mentioned Dog Face.

"That's what's real. You all need to kill everybody over there," voiced Patrick.

Dog Face laughed out.

"That's what we're going to do," he said.

"Anyway, I'm going to make a move. Bless up," saluted Patrick, giving Dog Face a pound and moving off.

He felt he could gain control of the area with Natty Blacks out the picture and Dog Face in power. _Easy._

"Dezzie, get your friends together. We're going to lock around here."

Desmond shook his head, understanding what he needed to do.

Chapter 14

Hunting criminals in Kingston's Arnett Gardens (Concrete Jungle), Constable Dignity rode inside his vehicle with a keen sense of alertness.

The tribal district was divided into separate partitions. Residents of these different schisms gave individual names on to certain sections of the area such as Top Jungle, Pegasus, Havana, Angola, Texas, and Mexico. These areas, at times, fought proxy wars against one another, elevating the already murderous aura within the community.

Replicating the model of Tivoli Gardens, Arnett' was built specifically for loyal PNP supporters during the 70s. The community became a prominent PNP power base, attracting the likes of many a popular gunmen with ties to the party.

Constable Dignity was born in the notorious Wilton Gardens (Rema) section of Kingston. Raised amongst some of Jamaica's most hardened criminals, he chose a different path in life. Instead of partaking in criminal activities, he joined forces with Jamaica's constabulary force to combat the island's criminal underworld. Possessing an athletic build, he was very active, aggressive, and had the heart to take on anyone in battle form. Kill or be killed was his motto, nothing short of that.

Stationed at the Central Police Station along East Queen Street in Central Kingston, he patrolled where he liked, frequenting where the most prominent criminals held court. The majority of time he moved alone, feeling most comfortable in his own presence.

Equipped with an M16 strapped to his back, two pistols on his waist, he traveled into the world of the unknown. Taking on gangs of gunmen, he usually came out on top. His reputation spoke volumes, gunmen dispersed at the mention of his name.

Constable Dignity stopped near a building in Mexico. A few men scurried away at the sight of his vehicle, bringing him laughter. It was amusing to see how people reacted in his presence. He'd definitely made a name for himself.

Stepping out his vehicle, he headed inside the building where a female companion lived.

Empty beer bottles lied sprawled on the floor, cigarette butts decorated the pavement. The place was a total mess.

He figured neighborhood hoods must have had a celebration of some sort; probably for a murder they committed.

Tapping the female's door, he was surprised when a shirtless man answered. He instantly recognized the man, a known criminal from the area who had been on the run from the law for years. The man's eyes went wide in fear when seeing him. Drawing his weapon, he took aim, pondering where to shoot the man. _The face, shoulder or head?_ While in thought, his companion materialized wearing an expression of shock.

"So, you're fucking on me?" he asked.

"Dignity, he is only a friend," instantly cried the woman.

Firing a single shot into the man's forehead, Constable Dignity waited on the body to drop to the ground before turning his weapon on the woman.

"Go and suck your mother in hell, bitch," he said, firing a round into the woman's face.

Walking out to his vehicle, he radioed in to the station informing his superiors that he came under fire from a gun toting pair who he was forced to cut down. He then sat in his ride waiting on coroners to retrieve the dead bodies.

_____

Roger sat out front a building in the Bumps section of Tivoli Gardens. Relocating to the area after the attack in Southside, he stayed with family.

He hated it in Tivoli Gardens. There was no place he wanted to be more than back home, which was no longer an option. The move to Tivoli' was against his will. He was forced into the deadly fortress by members of his family. His safety was most essential, and Tivoli Gardens was the only place where he would be protected from gunmen.

Perspiration drenched Roger's entire body, the sun beamed down on him unmercifully. Fanning himself with a piece of cardboard, he observed his surroundings, keenly. Anything could happen in Tivoli,' police could invade the area, as they occasionally did, rival gunmen could somehow find their way inside the community. Thus, he remained alert. _Always._

He rose to his feet when seeing his cousin, Bullet, walking his way.

"What's happening, cuz?" greeted Bullet, a tall, hefty youth.

"I'm just here," said Roger.

"Star, you look bored."

"I am."

"We're going over to Rema later to do some killing. You want to come?"

Roger shook his head no. _This is what they did for fun? Kill people?_

__ Murdering another human being was not his cup of tea. He never understood how a man could take another man's life. He _really_ wanted to be back home.

"No, family, I'm not with the politics thing," he said.

"You better get with it. Politics runs this country," said Bullet.

Jamaica was a paradox. There was no escaping the de rigueur. Politics effectuated destruction but was needed in Jamaican society. It was indeed essential. Nonetheless, Roger wanted no parts of what politics had to offer.

Bullet, suddenly, broke into a sprint racing by Roger and inside the building, reappearing a few seconds later with a machinegun. He eyed something on the nearby highway and aimed his weapon in the direction.

A five car caravan filled with visibly armed men drove on the highway in a slow motion, eyeing inside Tivoli Gardens.

"Sho! Sho!" shouted Bullet, calling to attention multiple persons in Tivoli Gardens.

Within seconds, a gang of men and women ran out to assist Bullet, all armed with weapons.

Roger backed up, figuring it best to stay near the building's entrance just in case he had to run. It would have been in his best of interest to head indoors to escape the seemingly imminent danger, but the spectacle of watching the organized men square off drove him to stay put. He'd never saw nothing like the current scene.

Tivoli's Shower gang formed a tight line, blockading the entrance to their fortress. Persons from all angles of the community came with weapons to assist fellow residents.

The obvious PNP men sped away at the sight of the large group of Tivoli Gardens residents.

"Being that we're gathered up, let's head up to Rema!" voiced Bullet, leading the pack to the nearby neighborhood.

Observing the gang of nearly a hundred moving off for Rema, Roger thought of how disoriented Southside was as a community when compared to Tivoli Gardens.

Organization made Tivoli Gardens the mother of all garrisons, the strongest community in Kingston, and possibly Jamaica. Other prominent communities were usually plagued with internal strife, ran under a democracy while Tivoli' was ran under a principality. One man at a time called shots in Tivoli,' while other communities were sectioned off with various persons calling the shots. And though principality brought tyranny, this was much safer than the atrocity democracy brought, which was anarchy.

For the first time, Roger was thinking political.

Chapter 15

Natty Blacks rode his motorbike on Red Hills Road moving for his home on Park Lane. Since the Southside attack, he'd been keeping a low profile uptown.

Southside was experiencing a transformation, some outside force was head strung at getting him out for good. Riding on Foster Lane one day, he was shot at by unknown assailants. Had he not known how to maneuver his motorbike he would have been a dead man. The culprit(s) seemed determined to finish him off, even giving chase as he rode to safety.

Initially, he thought those responsible were from Tel Aviv, but recalled seeing the persons sitting on the lane prior to him riding by. Tel Aviv men would not have had the heart to sit in Southside, especially not on a lane only a street away from Super Stud. _This is something internal._

Natty Blacks refused to relinquish Southside without a fight. He'd worked _too_ hard to establish himself in Parade Gardens. The entire Foster Lane would feel his wrath until those responsible for the attempt on his life was weeded out.

An example had to be set.

_____

Itchy and Bulla were out on a mission, anxious to prove their loyalty to their Don, Desmond. Making way onto Laws Street, the two walked for Tel Aviv, while holding weapons in plain view. Neither said a word, they'd already discussed the task at hand.

Crossing Gold Street into Tel Aviv territory, the boys added pep to their step, anxious to assassinate _anyone_ caught outside in Tel Aviv, per orders of the Don.

Itchy motioned at two middle aged women who happened upon Laws Street after turning off Rosemary Lane.

Bulla elevated his weapon, training it on the women who were now inches away.

"Finish them off," ordered Itchy.

Halting a few seconds when confronted by the armed boys, the women attempted to flee the scene in an earnest effort to evade the thugs.

Itchy and Bulla pressed the triggers on their weapons cutting down the fleeing women. Stepping over the bullet riddled-bodies, they emptied their weapons into the still figures.

"These bitches are dead," said Itchy. "Let's shoot back to the lane."

Racing off the scene, the boys headed for Foster Lane.

_____

Desmond was proud of his soldiers. He couldn't stop smiling following their deed for the community. _That is two less Tel Aviv people to worry about._

__ It didn't matter that two women were murdered, their demise was fair game. All was fair in war. Until Tel Aviv realized their past mistakes and halted in transgressions against Southside, there would be more killings like the latest two.

In admiration of Pink Lane's structure, Desmond converted Foster Lane into somewhat of a military base. He and a small group of friends patrolled the lane around the clock seeing sure detesters remained clear of the domain. Carefully distributing firearms, obtained from Patrick, among peers, his word became law on Foster Lane.

Word spread of his foothold on Foster Lane bringing the likes of many community youth in disagreement with the old way of things. Flocks of recruits drifted his way, all in favor of his regime. He'd become a significant player in Southside. Patrick guided him on the mission to Don-man-ship. The older man brought him in on links with other Laborite Dons, all of whom were willing to assist in the Southside takeover.

He implemented strict rules among his followers, all of which everyone respectfully abided by. No one was allowed on Foster Lane unless they were either residents of the lane or members apart of Desmond's cabal. If caught trespassing, the repercussion would be death. No exceptions. _Anyone_ caught in the presence of Laborite oppositions would be killed. Orders were to be executed in a timely fashion, no excuses. Desmond even renamed the lane, replacing Foster with _Faucet_ , signifying that blood must leak like a faucet upon meeting opposition.

The _Faucet Lane_ crew was born with Desmond at the lead.

Chapter 16

"Mark, you're acting as if you're running the show in Tel Aviv," angrily stated Errol, facing his friend in the Base.

"I don't want to hear that shit," argued Mark, turning and walking for the yard's exit.

"Don't turn your fucking back on me!"

Errol charged at Mark jumping on his back.

Mark, an athletic street fighter, was strong and swift on his toes. In a flash, he flipped Errol over his back and onto the ground.

Errol, a fighter himself, quickly regained his stance and proceeded to swing a barrage of blows at Mark's face, the majority making no connection.

The two swung back and forth at each other until one of Errol's blows connected knocking Mark to the ground.

Seeing his advantage over Mark, Errol took out a gun and aimed at his friend.

"Don't move, pussy!" he commanded, tired of fighting.

A few soldiers looked on as he held Mark at bay. His hand trembled as he aimed at his friend.

"Star, this wasn't the plan. You fucked everything up," he said, tears streaming down his face.

Mark began to cry as his friend.

"This is how you want things to be?" he cried, inching for a weapon on his waist.

Errol could see Mark discretely reaching for a gun. Politics had torn them apart. Never in a million years would he have thought he would be his friend's reaper. Squeezing a single shot into Mark's chest, he watched as his friend clutched his chest before taking a final breath.

Memories of their childhood came to mind. He was in disbelief as to what he'd done. Mark was gone, never coming back, and he was responsible.

"What the fuck are y'all looking at?!" he barked, turning his attention to the soldiers present. "Pick up the body and throw it over in South."

The boys present did as instructed without protest.

_____

"Tony, your boys in Tel Aviv are out of control," mentioned Michael Stewarts, sitting across from his friend outside a New Kingston café.

"Your boys in Southside are worse," retorted Tony Smith.

Michael Stewarts laughed out loud.

"Natty Blacks is not doing a good job down in the South, in the people's eyes. The Foster Lane youths have taken a stand against him," he said.

"So, what do you plan on doing?" asked Tony Smith.

"I have no choice but to side with the Foster Lane youths. I would be a fool to stick with Natty Blacks. His days are over."

Tony Smith giggled at his conniving friend.

The two came from far. Though representing different political parties, they remained close. Nothing could break their bond.

"My boy, Errol, is at work down in Tel Aviv. Everyone respects him down there," proudly voiced Tony Smith.

"I'm hearing a lot about him of late. Dignity told me that he had a confrontation with the youth," said Michael Stewarts.

"Yeah, Dignity also told me about that. I told him to leave the youth alone for now. But if ever he starts to get out of hand, I'm going to set more than Dignity on him," laughed Tony Smith.

Michael Stewarts laughed with his friend.

Michael Stewarts and Tony Smith were taught by the best and knew how to control the dogs, so called Dons, who believed they were actually in control of things. The gangsters were really pawns used to gain votes during election time and to keep the calm in certain areas. But, if by some chance, the gangsters got out of hand, they were eliminated and replaced.

Meeting with the leader of the new regime on Foster Lane, Michael Stewarts was taken aback by the young Don's unbending stance against Natty Blacks, but impressed, nevertheless. Hearing the boy's spill about keeping Southside a JLP stronghold, and PNP free, made it easy to choose the youth as the new superior over the community. Natty Blacks seemed to have lost his foothold in Southside, so he had no choice but to go with Desmond as the new Don. He had big plans for the boy.

Chapter 17

Obtaining the status of Desmond's second in command, Lucky, a senior member in the gang, allowed the cabal to use his yard as a base. He was glad to be a head figure in Southside's new regime, it did not matter that the entire gang were only boys much younger than himself. He respected the gang's resistance against Natty Blacks, and had taken a vow to accompany them on the mission to domination. As the boys, he yearned for community change. Natty Blacks' oppressive mannerisms affected everyone within the small enclave of Southside; it was time for him to go.

"Dezzie, you know that nigga Dog Face has to die, right?" said Lucky. "That pussy runs his mouth way too much."

Sitting inside the Faucet Lane base, Desmond paid keen attention to Lucky.' Possessing a tremendous amount of respect for the older man, he knew Lucky would not lead him astray. It was true, Dog Face needed to be disciplined, and possibly murdered, but he really wanted the boy on his side and figured such a feat could be accomplished in due time. With the exception of Super Stud, the entire Southside had joined forces with the Faucet Lane gang, so, he figured, it was only a matter of time before Dog Face came to his senses.

"You're right about that, but I'm going to give him some time to come to his senses," he said, taking a gun from his waist.

Raising the weapon in the air, he smiled at the deadly object. Guns made him feel powerful, he always kept one around. A sense of discomfort fell upon his shoulders outside the presence of a weapon. He'd become attached to the dangerous object.

"That's a nice piece," complimented Lucky.

"I'm telling you," smiled Desmond.

"Come and let us go out on the lane," said Lucky, leading the way onto Foster Lane.

Desmond followed.

Foster Lane was crowded with members of the new gang making raves in the community. Male and female alike occupied the narrow lane, the majority flocking to Desmond when he and Lucky exited the gang's headquarters.

Lucky stepped to the side allowing everyone to get near to Desmond, but watched the flock with cautious eyes. Palming a pistol inside his pant pocket, he, silently, dared someone to make a funny move against the Don. _Anyone._

__ Repercussions for such an act would be bleak. He held his position in high regards, and would be damned if another tried, in anyway, to alter his spot.

Everyone's attention turned to the head of the lane when a large group emerged with Dog Face at the lead.

Without hesitation, Desmond moved to the impeding force with his gang in tow.

"Dog Face, why are you coming on my lane with all these niggas, rude boy?" he asked the Super Stud enforcer.

"Star, Natty Blacks wants back his place," started Dog Face. "Are you all going to respect the Don's word or not?"

Positioned near Desmond, Lucky waited for the boy's consent to fire on Dog Face. Staring into the latter's face, he trembled in anticipation of killing the boy.

"Tell Natty Blacks that _I_ said his days as Southside's Don are over," emphasized Desmond.

"Rude boy, you're making a big mistake," warned Dog Face. "This can lead to a bloody war."

"Get the fuck off my corner," calmly stated Desmond, aiming a weapon at Dog Face.

Dog Face raised his hands and calmly backed away, signaling for his gang to do the same.

When the Super Stud gang was out of sight, Desmond turned to his followers.

"After today, anyone representing Super Stud must die," he voiced.

Chapter 18

The force of an M16 assault-rifle rocked Roger's slim frame, but he kept a firm grip on the powerful weapon and continued to fire. Loud explosions lit up the atmosphere, coupled with the roar of his weapon. Firing on the police force attempting to enter Tivoli Gardens, he and cronies, bravely, faced off with the lawmen.

Gunmen fired from roofs inside Tivoli Gardens, as well on ground. Bullets riddled vehicles and wall units used as cover for the parties engaged in the duel. Unleashed weapons brightened up the evening hours.

Kneeling behind a wall, Roger paused to reload his weapon. Anxious to resume his assault on the abundant police force, he dropped his weapon's magazine on the ground. Just as he kneeled to retrieve the clip, a bullet whizzed by where his head would have been. _Fuck!_ Angered by the near death experience, he quickly inserted the clip and jumped to his feet, exposing himself, caring nothing of his frame's vulnerability.

"Shower!" he screamed, while firing in all directions at the police.

The intense battle lasted for hours, until, finally, the police retreated, garnering the Tivoli' men a victory.

Once the coast was clear, everyone headed for the community's center.

"Roger, I am proud of you," smiled Bullet, walking with his cousin. "You are an official gangster now."

"Thanks, cuz," smiled Roger.

Reaching an area in the community known as _Java,_ everyone gathered around a dark, husky man.

"Roger, that's the big man," whispered Bullet, motioning toward the man at the center of the crowd.

"Yea?" Roger asked, nonchalantly.

"Yes, the great one."

Roger paid little attention to the Don as the man spoke of the day's events. Instead, he surveyed the multitude who peered in the Don's direction with admiration filled orbs. He yearned for the same attention and position as the Don, but knew such a task could not be accomplished in Tivoli Gardens.

Tivoli' had drawn him into its world, creating a ruthless gangster as many who lived in the community. Tagging along on extermination missions wherein he killed without remorse, participating in robberies and extortion, he became one in the same as the typical street hoodlum.

The assault in Tel Aviv played a major role in his newfound life. He was stabbed and left for dead because of his address. Just the thought of what had taken place hardened his heart. Prior beliefs went out the window when he was nearly killed. _Th_ e _PNP must pay._

__ While listening to the Tivoli' Don, he plotted his return to Southside. It was time to head back home. He was needed there. The atrocity that befell him should _never_ befall another Southside resident, he silently promised himself.

_____

"Excuse me, pretty," Patrick called to a female, pulling his brand-new BMW to a stop along Gold Street.

"Are you calling me?" asked an apparent young girl, ample in figure.

"Of course," answered Patrick, exiting his vehicle and approaching the girl.

Draped in a full green linen suit, he wore a pair of alligator shoes to match his get up. Two large gold rope chains graced his neck, four finger rings on each hand glistened in the sun. He felt good about his appearance.

West Kingston's extortion game brought in lots of money. Business establishments were compelled to pay a fee to gangsters or face the prospect of being robbed and shut down. There was no going around the cycle in place. The police could not monitor everywhere. Therefore, in order to run a successful business in west Kingston, owners had to pay gangsters to protect their businesses from other gangsters.

Aside from extortion fees received from business owners, Patrick reaped the benefits of friends who'd migrated abroad and sent goods of all magnitudes, making living in Jamaica equivalent to living in America. Nevertheless, he yearned to touch the soil of the United States, and eventually would. Jamaica was too small for his aspirations, it was imperative he departed the island. _Very soon._

"So, what do you want with me?" asked the young girl, blushing.

"I want to take you home to my mother," Patrick lied.

Taking the girl's number, Patrick went on his way, moving for Foster Lane. He'd not been on the lane in some time and decided to check in on Desmond. Maneuvering on the drag, he slammed on the brake when his car was surrounded by gun toting youngsters.

"What the fuck?" he whispered.

"Pussy, put your hands where I can see them!" barked one of the youngsters.

Quickly complying, Patrick placed his hands in view. He did not know what to expect from the unfamiliar juveniles, and figured it best to show no signs of resistance. He patiently waited on the youth's next order.

"What's your business on the lane?" asked the youth.

"My name is Patrick and I am from this lane. I came to see Dezzie," answered Patrick.

One of the boys lowered his weapon and stepped closer to the ride. Looking inside, his eyes widened.

"That's you, Patrick? I never knew it was you," said the boy, signaling for the rest of youth' present to lower their weapons.

"Itchy?" asked Patrick.

"Yes, boss man. It is me. Park up the Band Man Wagon," said Itchy, referring to Patrick's ride.

Patrick was upset, but held his composure. The boys were only doing their job; he was actually impressed by their quick response to a possible intruder on their post.

Desmond appeared from a yard.

"What's up, boss man?" he greeted, walking over and shaking Patrick's hand.

"I'm here, family," said Patrick. "Come, let's talk."

The two walked away from the rest of boys.

"So, what's up?" asked Desmond. "I haven't seen you in a long while."

"Star, I've been on the hustle," said Patrick.

"How are you getting by?"

"Extortion; and my friends in America are doing very well."

"That sounds good."

"I should be going to America soon, also. All I'm waiting on is some documents."

"So, what's going to happen with us on the lane?"

"I'm going up to America to line things up, then I'm going to send for everyone."

"Okay. Just don't forget us, boss."

"Trust me, I won't."

Chapter 19

Rae Town's annual street dance was jam-packed with pedestrians. Persons of all ages crammed Ellerston Road, grooving to music selections played by the island's number one sound-system, Stone-Love International. Children played on rides, street vendors sold various food items and merchandise. The day's event was an obvious success.

Occupying an entire section on the road, along with a local Rae Town gang known as the Untouchables, Errol and his crew eyed the event's attendees in an earnest search for foes. Scoping the dense multitude, the Tel Aviv hoods grew tense when Southside gangsters emerged on the scene, led by Desmond.

"That's that nigga Dezzie," mentioned a few Tel Aviv hoods in unison.

Everyone's attention turned to Desmond and the Faucet Lane gang, who walked through the street's center in a browbeat manner.

Errol had not seen Desmond in sometime. Word had been circulating about the latter's newfound repute and disdain for Tel Aviv. Their friendship was in a questionable state following Roger's assault. He was being blamed for the infraction. Finally able to explain his take on what occurred, he approached Desmond.

"Pussy, back the fuck up!" shouted Desmond, stepping back a few feet and taking out a gun.

Errol paused when Desmond pulled a weapon. His cronies instantly sprung into action, drawing weapons and aiming at the Southside boss.

Desmond pierced Errol as his soldiers matched the stance of the Tel Aviv gang, aiming weapons at _their_ boss.

Pandemonium ensued as civilians dispersed in every direction in a desperate attempt to get out of the armed gangs way.

"Dezzie, this is what things have come to?" Errol asked, hurt by Desmond's disregard of their friendship.

"You and your friends tried killing Roger. That means we are no longer friends," spat Desmond.

"I had nothing to do with that, family."

"We are no family. We are enemies."

Errol was in disbelief. Desmond's words seemingly pierced his heart. They'd come from so far, been through so many things together, only for their friendship to come to a crashing end. _Damn._

__ He wanted to explain further, but, it was obvious, Desmond was reluctant to resolve the matter.

"Okay, Dezzie. It is what it is," he said.

Signaling for his gang to move out, everyone, cautiously, backed away to safety.

Chapter 20

Consistent acts of violence earned Roger the title of top ranking. Reaching the status of an up and coming Don, he was on the way to becoming something of prominence in Jamaica's criminal underworld. Taking such a giant leap into street life was never a plan, though. However, the criminal element changed his view on things.

Street notary came along with significant, noteworthy perks. Gangsters were symbols in the ghetto, receiving the same treatment as actual celebrities. People from all walks of life gravitated toward the outlaws, paying homage whenever in the presence of society's misfits. Gangsters got _anything_ they wanted, _whenever_ they wanted.

Solidifying his reputation as a ruffian, Roger came to the conclusion that Tivoli Gardens was not a place he could sprout into a dominant force, his intended aspirations. The majority gangsters from Tivoli' would not reach the stature of superior Don over the community because of a past order set in stone, thus, he needed to get back to Southside where there would be more of an option to set his own laws.

Peddling a bicycle along Barry Street, Roger rode by some of Kingston's most notorious lanes and streets. Bringing his speed to an extra slow motion at Matthews Lane, he watched a group of Spangler gang members, all of whom returned the gesture, penetrating his movements. He and the particular gang had become immortal enemies during his time in Tivoli,' he despised their existence. He felt like shooting at the group, but decided against it, a more important mission was at hand. _I'll catch up to them later._

Moving on, he rode until reaching Rosemary Lane. Stopping at the seemingly deserted lane, he surveyed the drag while resting a hand on his waist where a gun laid.

Thoroughfares as Rosemary' remained occupied at all times, someone _always_ kept watch on such lanes.

Reaching Southside, his heart smiled.

"It's been a while," he said, continuing the journey.

He quickly recognized things had changed.

Graffiti of Southside's new gang decorated nearly every wall, authenticating their presence. The cabal's exploits reverberated all over Kingston. Faucet Lane's successful coup against Natty Blacks' Super Stud gang left many in shock. Many had tried ousting the Southside boss in past times, but were unable to. The young gang, Faucet Lane, however, distorted history, forever.

"Excuse me, sir, may I ask your business on the lane?" innocently asked a young girl.

Roger could tell the girl was in possession of a weapon. _She can't fool me._ Before he got the chance to retrieve his gun, though, the girl had one trained on him.

"Pussy, I'm going to ask you, again," started the girl. "What is your business on the lane?"

Startled, Roger kept calm.

"I come in peace," he said, placing his hands in the air.

Within seconds, the lane became crowded with armed youths, all waving guns at Roger.

Roger wore a smirk, accepting defeat.

"Don't I know you?" asked someone.

"Lucky?" asked Roger, recognizing the older man.

"Roger?!" Lucky shouted. "That's you, rude boy?"

"Yes, my general."

"Everyone, step back!" ordered Lucky.

Everyone obeyed Lucky' order and backed away.

"Family, you can't just come on the lane like that, man. It's different over here now, Roger," explained Lucky. "It's not like before."

"I can tell, man," said Roger, impressed by the order of things on Foster Lane.

"Come on. Let me take you to the big man."

Lucky' mention of the _big man_ was mind boggling, Roger was confused. _Could he be talking about Dezzie?_

__ Roger was sure Lucky had him by, at least, 10 years of age, the man once ran in the same circles as his father and was revered as a very serious person. Such an individual would be considered to be in charge of things, not acknowledging a younger boy as the _big man. Things had definitely changed._

__ Entering a yard on the lane, Roger smiled when seeing Desmond.

"Oh shit!" yelled Desmond, grabbing and hugging Roger. "You forgot about us?"

"I could never do that, family. Just been out west kicking up dust," said Roger.

"So why haven't you linked me?"

"A lot of things was going on in Tivoli,' so I was caught up."

"Well, you're home now, so you know that it's your word over everything."

Roger smiled, glad to be home.

_____

Infuriated by Desmond's blatant disrespect, Dog Face made the decision to kill the other youth when the opportunity presented itself. _That nigga has to die._

__ Since the insult, he found it hard to think clearly. He'd been a defender of Southside for a long while, therefore, a neophyte should not have the prerogative to violate someone of his stature. _Who the fuck does he think he is?_

__ Stepping outside his yard onto High Holborn Street, he noticed the drag was empty of occupants.

Constant attacks from Faucet Lane thugs caused Super Stud members, and affiliates, to refrain from securing their post. Usually High Holborn Street would be packed with persons, but that had not been the case of late. Avoidance of the thoroughfare became the norm, people stayed far from the deadly zone.

Regardless of Natty Blacks' abandonment of the community, Dog Face felt it imperative that he remained strong for his Don, who'd done so much for him in life. Because of the older man, he was able to feed his family and take care of his children. For this, he would forever remain loyal.

A lone figure peddled a bicycle onto the street catching Dog Face's attention. Taking out a gun, he waited for the person to get closer. When the individual got within shooting range, though, he instantly recognized the person as a friend and not a foe.

"Roger, what's happening, my nigga," he said putting his gun away. "It's been a long time."

He and Roger had grown together and were close friends since young. He was happy to see his chum, and figured certain situations could be rectified now that the other boy was around.

"Nothing much, I'm just riding around the area. I haven't been out here in a long while," said Roger, getting off his bike.

"Family, I've really been trying to get in touch with you to speak about the bullshit Dezzie is keeping up. I need your assistance in this matter, because the Don wants him dead. But I know that's your friend, so maybe we can resolve things before it gets more out of hand," explained Dog Face.

"I heard what's been going on, but _you_ know that's my family."

"Yea, but..."

Dog Face's heart jolted when Roger swiftly moved to him grabbing his pant waist.

"Roger, what the fuck are you doing?!" he asked, reaching for his gun.

"Don't try it, pussy," snarled Roger, placing a gun to the other boy's chest.

"Fuck you, nigga!"

He should have known Roger's mysterious appearance was some sort of set up. Struggling to get to his weapon, he lost every ounce of energy when a loud bang rocked his frame. A slug tore through his chest leaving him immobile. As he fell to the ground, he looked deep into Roger's eyes.

"Jah know, star," was all he could think to mutter.

Roger emptied his weapon's cartridge on Dog Face before fleeing the scene.

Chapter 21

Accepting defeat, Natty Blacks could think of nothing more to do than shake his head as he boarded a plane headed for America. He was left with no option but to depart his land of birth, sweet Jamaica. _I'm going to miss you._ His safety was no longer promised on the island, Michael Stewarts, officially, banded with the younger generation in Southside.

Should he be disappointed with the politician? How could he?

For years, he exhibited nothing short of a deep-rooted loyalty for Michael Stewarts, but, in essence, was in cognizant with the fact that the politician was just using him for gains in the political world. Such was the case for many before his time, and had always been the scenario in the slums of Kingston.

Who was he to change history?

Politicians were not for those confined to the ghettoes of Kingston, in no form or fashion. Class was the order of the day, Uptown verse Downtown, with Uptown at the lead, _always_. Residents in Kingston's upper region were catered to, while those at the bottom received scraps, if that. Thus was the unchanging cycle.

With Michael Stewarts' assistance, the Foster Lane youths were able to seize the entire community of Southside. The gang dismantled all opposing forces against their regime. Gang leader, Desmond, played the frontline in every battle, adding to his prominence as a force to be reckoned with. There was no stopping him and his gang.

Natty Blacks made the painful decision to take up New York as his new residence. It hurt to have to leave Jamaica, but his mind was set. There would be no turning back. _America, here I come._

_____

Barging inside a shop along Barry Street, Roger and members of the Faucet Lane outfit held guns to the store's owner.

The elder shopkeeper looked on in horror as the armed gang crowded his shop.

"Elder, if you want to stay opened down here, you have to pay a weekly tax to my gang," ordered Roger.

"What do you mean, my youth?" asked the shopkeeper, confused. "Why are you all doing this?"

Roger was on a mission to change the course of things in Central Kingston by implementing extortion schemes he learned while out west. Central' lacked such a system; one had not been set in place prior to his time. Therefore, he felt it necessary to create the lucrative system, starting with Southside.

"Because if we don't, someone else will, elder," he said, smiling.

"I work too hard," voiced the shopkeeper.

"I understand, so let's make things easy."

"You all are going to have to kill me."

Moving closer to the shopkeeper, Roger placed his weapon to the man's head.

"Don't play with me, pussy!" he barked.

"Kill me!" the shopkeeper screamed. "I'm not afraid to die! I will not be extorted!"

Roger fired a round into the man's head, silencing him. He then turned to his gang.

"No mercy. That's the motto. Kill all resistors," he quipped, moving for the shop's exit. "Burn down this bitch."

One of the boy's with Roger lit the shop on fire before everyone dispersed into Southside's nightlife.

Chapter 22

Meeting with Desmond at East Queen Street, Michael Stewarts was surprised when he noticed the boy brought company along.

"I told this motherfucker to come alone," he complained under his breath.

Parade Gardens was in a complete uproar, mainly, in part, due to Southside gunmen.

Faucet Lane gangsters participated in _daily_ extermination missions, executing those within the Central Kingston constituency affiliated with the Tel Aviv gang. The outfit extorted businesses, killing anyone who resisted their demands. Constant gunfights with police personal and the gang turned Parade Gardens into a ghost town. Civilians feared the gang's wrath, the cabal's no mercy approach, and confined themselves to their homes.

Michael Stewarts had never seen Southside in such a state.

"Who's your friend?" asked Michael Stewarts, motioning at a boy standing near Desmond.

"This is my friend, Roger," smiled Desmond.

"I asked you to come alone, Desmond," started Michael Stewarts. "If you can't follow orders, you can't be in position down here in Southside."

Desmond and Roger exchanged glances following the politician's caveat.

"Listen," continued Michael Stewarts. "I want for you to instruct your guys to stop the bullshit, or _I_ will."

Desmond remained silent as the M.P. spoke, glancing at Roger ever so often.

"Do I make myself clear?" Michael Stewarts asked.

"Do you?" asked Desmond.

"Excuse me?"

"We run the show, politician boy," laughed Roger, moving closer to Michael Stewarts and grabbing the man by the shirt collar.

Michael Stewarts tried to break free of the boy's hold, pausing when Desmond placed a gun to his side. Looking about in fear at passing pedestrians, no one came to his rescue. Urine ran down his leg as he thought of what the boys would do to him.

"Please, Desmond," he begged. "Think about what y'all are doing. I am a government official."

Both boys laughed out.

"Well, Mr. Government official," started Roger, forcibly shoving a gun into Michael Stewarts' side, "it's a new day. And if _we_ don't get what we want, you nor your friends can come down these ways. Understood?"

Without hesitation, Michael Stewarts acknowledged Roger's commands with a head shake.

"Now get the fuck out of here before I kill you," threatened Roger.

Michael Stewarts, quickly, ran off.

"You know that pussy is going to send the army down here for us, right?" said Desmond.

"Well, I guess it's time to prepare the troops for war," smiled Roger.

_____

Southside gangster's aggressive antics were dismantling Tel Aviv's structure. Brazen, daily attacks drove certain lanes/streets in the community to side with the Faucet Lane regime. Only a few thoroughfares held steadfast with the Tel Aviv gang.

As pressure mounted, Errol remained grounded, nonetheless. The war had spiraled out of his control and he was losing soldiers daily. Allies refrained from assisting, focusing on _their_ own squabbles with other community gangs. He'd reached a point where he could do no more to regain a foothold in the war.

Since Mark's death, Tony Smith shied away, leaving Errol to find firepower on his own. The politician ignored his calls, and, obviously, set the police force on him. Placed on Kingston's most-wanted list, he was forced to keep a low profile.

Creeping along Rum Lane, Errol slowed up when noticing an arcane vehicle parked near his yard. Moving to the opposite side of the street, he took out a gun. Then, suddenly, to his rear, a shot rang out making him to duck for cover and spin in the direction the bang came from. He noticed two boys running his way, both holding weapons, firing at him. _Oh shit!_

__ Finding cover in between a yard's entrance, he fired back at the boys, holding them off. Stealing a glimpse at the mysterious vehicle near his yard, his frame stiffened when two persons alighted from the car. _Roger and Dezzie._

__ The two held guns and wasted no time to fire at him.

It hurt to have to engage his friends in a gunfight, but it was essential he preserved himself. Caught up in a two-way gun-battle, he fired his weapon in both directions.

Discharged firearms roared on Rum Lane lighting up the dark narrow strip. Bullets penetrated anything putting up resistance.

Having indulged in numerous shootouts, Errol knew it was best to retreat. The odds were stacked high against him. Barging inside the yard's entrance he used for cover, he ran to the rear section of the residence where he hopped a wall a lane over. Once secure on the other side, he paused to catch his breath.

"Fuck!" he voiced.

Staying in Tel Aviv would only result in an early demise, he had to get going. With no assistance from Tony Smith, he was doomed. His only option was to, somehow, leave the island. _I have to go._

Chapter 23

Labeled Kingston's most-wanted, an island wide hunt was in effect for Roger and Desmond. The entire Jamaica Constabulary and Defense Force were on high alert to capture the two, by _any means necessary._ A heavy police presence engulfed Parade Gardens. Search teams scoured Central Kingston for the fugitives, daily.

Burning a large joint inside his family's Tivoli Gardens pad, Roger watched the nightly news that focused around his capture. His leadership in the Faucet Lane gang was the highlight of the program. It was alleged that he was in charge of one of Jamaica's most deadly gangs, and was responsible for multiple killings throughout Kingston.

Taking a deep toke, he pondered his fate.

Would he be killed by the police? Would rivals catch up to him and blow him to pieces?

Regardless, he was prepared for whatever was on the horizon. He'd chosen the path of badness; it was too late to back out.

Heading out to the communities center, he ran into his cousin.

"Family, I think it's best if you stay indoors," warned Bullet. "Dignity has been circling the area."

Roger cringed at the mention of the prominent cop.

"I need to kill that motherfucker," he said. "Where can I find him?"

"Star, just keep a low profile, eventually things will cool down."

"No. I want to kill that motherfucker. I hear that it's him who's pushing for me and my friend's murder."

Constable Dignity patrolled Parade Gardens, ardently, in search of the boys. The killer cop made it clear that _he_ wanted to bring in the youths, dead.

"Well, since you insist, he's always up by 'Jungle. You can catch up to him there," said Bullet.

"Okay," said Roger.

_____

Desmond helped Cutie pack her suitcases inside a taxicab on Foster Lane.

"Damn, my friend, you're really leaving me," he mentioned in a sad tone.

"Dezzie, I have to go," Cutie sighed. "My mother is in America now. I can't stay here any longer."

She glimpsed at Desmond with tear-filled eyes, wondering what would become of her friend. It hurt to have to leave him in Southside while she was headed for a better place, but what more could she do?

"Just take care of yourself, and always keep in mind that I love you," said Desmond, hugging Cutie.

Falling into Desmond's tight embrace, Cutie sobbed.

"Stop the fucking crying," laughed Desmond. "Aren't you a tough girl?"

"I love you, too, Desmond. And, please, don't let these motherfuckers kill you down here," begged Cutie.

"I'll get them before they get me, trust."

Allowing Cutie to get in the taxicab, Desmond watched as his lifelong friend drifted off to a better life.

Families were leaving Southside on a regular basis, headed for foreign countries in pursuit of a better life. Poverty stricken environs as Parade Gardens could not contain those with resources to disperse, the goal for the majority was to retreat downtrodden communities as Southside and Tel Aviv.

There was no place like home, though, Desmond could not see himself living anywhere else but Southside.

A car entered the lane grabbing his attention. _Who's this now?_ Quickly taking out a gun, he selected a bullet in the weapon's chamber and waited for the car to get closer. His heartbeat increased in the midst of preparing for action. Ready to spray the vehicle with bullets, he bit his bottom lip in anticipation.

A recent dragnet by the police resulted in the arrest of a number of persons in Southside, all tied to the Faucet Lane gang. Such excursions became the norm for law enforcement personal, raiding Parade Gardens in hunt for criminals. Yard gates were kicked off hinges, certain hangouts invaded by determined policemen and soldiers.

Taken up residence in Tivoli Gardens, Desmond usually stayed away from Southside, stopping by only on occasion. Preferring death over prison, he was prepared to kill whomever to stay free and alive.

When the car got near, Desmond realized it was Roger.

"You had me nervous, family," he said, putting his gun away.

"Get in the car," said Roger.

Desmond quickly got in the vehicle.

"What's the mission?" he asked.

"It's time to take this badness to another level," said Roger.

Chapter 24

Parked in Concrete Jungle, Constable Dignity watched passerby's with a cautious eye. People looked in on him, but hurried away once realizing who was inside the vehicle. His reputation was evident, it gave him joy to see the control he had over people. Years of duty in the streets came with countless pitfalls, but if he could do things all over again, there would be nothing he would change. He loved the path he chose in life.

History books could be written on clashes he had with gunmen in Concrete Jungle, one of the most challenging community's he's dealt with along the years. Shot at on numerous occasions in the area, he was, also, shot twice by gunmen from 'Jungle. The thrill of engaging bold gangsters drove him back to the community every time. It was obvious he couldn't quell violence in the neighborhood, but refused to let up on trying.

A green car pulled to a stop a few feet up from where he was parked. Something seemed out of the ordinary with the vehicle, his instincts told him something was wrong. _Something is not right._

A boy emerged from the car causing his heart to jolt.

_Oh shit! Roger!_

__ Retrieving his firearm, he grabbed the door handle to exit the car, but was met by Desmond, who unleashed a barrage of bullets at his vehicle. Jumping across into the passenger's seat, he realized he was shot. _Fuck!_

The sound of squealing tires verified the fugitives fled the scene.

Lying still in the car, Constable Dignity thought of how the boys set him up, how they went about things in such a professional manner.

Forcing himself into an upright position, he saw he was bleeding all over. He'd yet to figure out where he was shot at, but felt excruciating pain in his abdomen and neck. Getting in the driver's side seat, he drove himself to the hospital.

Chapter 25

"Y'all have to leave the community. The boss man is saying y'all are making the area too hot," Bullet informed Roger.

"Huh?" questioned Roger, confused.

Where would they go? What would they do?

The community had always been a safe place for wanted men, he found it hard to fathom as to why they were being singled out by the Don.

"Family, the Prime Minister and Dignity are very good friends, and he's upset about what y'all did to the officer," explained Bullet.

Jamaica's contradictory system saddened Roger. Politicians ordered hits on ghetto residents, but chastised gunmen for taking a stand against injustice bestowed upon the people by government officials, his reason for breaking set rules. He refused to follow political protocol, to allow politicians to disrespect poor persons as himself. Change in the system was needed, and he was willing to champion the cause.

"No problem, family. I understand. That's just how the system is set," he said.

"I have some people up in May Pen that you two can stay with until we figure things out," said Bullet. "Y'all are probably going to have to leave the island."

Roger's heart skipped a beat when hearing Bullet's statement. _Leave the island? And go where?_

__ Shaking his head in disappointment, he fathomed it would be in his best interest to leave the country. The police would surely murder him if he didn't. A nationwide manhunt was out for his apprehension, eventually he would be caught if he didn't get out of dodge.

"Anything you say, family. I trust your word," he said.

Chapter 26

Entering Robby Buckets, a pub on Parkside Avenue in Brooklyn, New York, Natty Blacks focused on the night crowd. Everyone acknowledged his arrival, looking his way.

The dense atmosphere was filled with patrons guzzling liquor and dancing to reggae selections blasting from speakers situated throughout the tavern.

Finding a secluded corner, Natty Blacks observed the crowd of relatively Central Kingston migrants.

New York, a lucrative terrain, treated him well. In charge of a few crack-cocaine dens that brought in thousands of dollars profit on a day to day basis, he also sold bulks of the best marijuana sent from Jamaica.

He had loyal soldiers at his beck and call. The Southside massive were disunited in New York, but the majority followed his orders. Outfits such as the Renkers Posse and the Faucet Lane gang, the last of which was quickly growing in popularity, were the only Southies who disregarded his bids. Regardless, he was _the_ boss among all from Central Kingston in New York. With the snap of a finger, he could have an entire family wiped out. His position was solidified.

Adjusting a pistol on his waist, Natty Blacks started for the bar's exit. It was time to head on home.

_____

Arriving in New York, a gust of brisk wind felt as if it slapped Roger's face. _What the fuck?_

__ "Damn, it's cold out here!" shouted Desmond.

Unprepared for New York's blistering weather, the boys wore garments suitable for Jamaica's steamy temperature. Outside the John F. Kennedy International Airport, they searched frantically for their pickup man, anxious to get out of the seemingly deadly weather.

"There he goes," voiced Roger, pointing at Patrick standing near a black car.

The two ran to Patrick.

"What's happening?" greeted Patrick, giving the boys a hug.

"Family, I need to get out of this cold," said Roger.

Patrick laughed out.

"Come on, let's go," he said, directing the boys inside his car.

Roger and Desmond quickly got inside Patrick's vehicle, glad to get out of the cold.

"The cold is biting y'all, huh?" laughed Patrick, situating himself in the driver's seat before pulling off.

"Patrick, I never knew foreign was so cold, man," said Roger, shuddering in the backseat.

Desmond laughed at his friend from the passenger seat.

"Yeah, man," said Patrick. "Y'all didn't bring anything up?"

He noticed the boys had no suitcases of any sort.

"Nah, man," the two answered in unison.

"We had to hurry out the country once the opportunity presented itself," said Desmond.

"I see. I'm going to have to bring y'all shopping," said Patrick. "Y'all are in America now."

"Yea, man, we're here," said Roger.

Staring out the car's window, he watched the view outside while thinking of Jamaica. He already missed home. _Damn._

If he didn't have to leave Jamaica, he wouldn't have. There was no place like home, he would never _ever_ forget his birthplace, but it was time to put Jamaica to the back of his mind. It was time to get focused; the land of opportunity was now within his midst. Establishing himself in America would enable him to help the needy back home. Thus, he planned on taking extreme measures to obtain success in America.

Chapter 27

Sporting the popular Triple Fat Goose jacket, Lucky concealed both his hands in the coat's pockets. A black beanie covered his baldhead; a scarf of the same hue wrapped his neck. He wore black military boots that made him appear much taller than his actual height of six feet.

Positioned in Brooklyn's Foster Avenue Park, he observed as children played on swings and monkey bars, utilizing the mechanisms of the playground, caring nothing of the cold weather. A group of males, also, occupied the play area, one of whom he'd been in search of for some time. _Finally._ Moving to the pack, he called to the male he'd been looking for.

"Me?" the male asked, pointing at himself, wearing a worried expression.

Peering at the group, Lucky shook his head.

Everyone with the congregation wore worrisome expressions.

Reluctantly, the male walked over to Lucky.

"Son, why are you selling shit in my area?" Lucky asked in his best American accent.

"I'm not hustling out here, Lucky. That's a lie," answered the male nervously.

Lucky knew the boy was lying. His sources had long ago informed him the particular male was making drug sales on his turf.

In a swift motion, he grabbed hold of the male's pant waist pulling him closer. The boy struggled to break free of his grip, but he held on tighter. Ejecting a pistol from his jacket pocket, he placed it to the male's chest causing the boy's eyes to widen. It always amused him to see how people reacted right before death. Pressing the trigger on his weapon, it brought him pleasure to hear the boy gasp as a bullet tore through his chest. Loosening his grip on the mark, he allowed the boy to fall to ground. He then fled the scene, disappearing inside one of Vanderveer Houses many buildings.

The second murder in the matter of two weeks, Lucky was on a mission to see sure no one violated his set order in the neighborhood. He controlled Vanderveer' with an iron-fist, and refused to, willfully, give it over to anyone. He chose the notorious Brooklyn project as home upon his advent in America. Once in its circumference, he began a reign of terror, peppering the neighborhood with bullets in the name of Faucet Lane. He and the gang eliminated _all_ competition, showing no remorse to opposing forces. He played a key role in establishing the Faucet Lane gang's fearsome reputation in New York. Leading the pack of immigrant savages, he took on the streets of New York in a ferocious manner.

Word reached of Roger and Desmond's arrival in New York. He couldn't wait to meet up with the two. There was a lot to speak about.

_____

"Star, let me fuck her first?" Roger begged, anxious to get first dibs on an American beauty Patrick situated for him and Desmond.

"Come on, family, let me go first?" protested Desmond.

Lying in a couch inside his living-room, Patrick laughed as the boys went back and forth. It was amusing to see the youths debating.

Residing on intersecting East 21st Street and Newkirk Avenue in Flatbush, Brooklyn, Patrick found comfort on the particular thoroughfare, a prominent corner for persons from within the Central Kingston fold, chiefly Southside. He felt right at home on the avenue, as many from back home who'd made the drag their new living quarters.

Newkirk Avenue was a violent, deadly strip, a hotbed drag where shootings and killings occurred on a regular basis. Jamaican and American drug gangs converted the avenue into an unofficial warzone, opening fire on rivals at any given time of the day. Crack-cocaine/marijuana dealers openly sold drugs on the drag. The avenue was one of the most dangerous places in New York City.

Patrick wanted Roger and Desmond to experience sexual intercourse with an American beauty as he had upon his arrival in America. As the boys squabbled about who would go first, he intervened.

"Y'all two, chill out," he said. "Both of y'all can fuck her at the same time."

Roger and Desmond gave each other head nods in approval of Patrick's suggestion.

"You're absolutely right, my Don," said Desmond.

The boys went to a room where the female waited. Inside a mocha complexioned girl sat in the nude on a bed, rubbing a set of bullet-tipped nipple breasts.

Roger and Desmond looked from the female to each other, smiling.

Licking her thick lips in a seductive manner, the girl spread her legs ajar exposing her moist, hairy snatch. Smiling at the boys, she began to finger herself, moaning aloud while doing so.

Desmond could take no more of the theatrics, his manhood felt on the verge of bursting through his pants. Rushing toward the female, he jumped on top of her.

"Umph," sounded the girl when Desmond landed on her.

As Desmond wrestled to get his penis out his pants, she situated herself in the missionary position, spreading her legs extra wide.

When Desmond finally got his penis out, he entered the girl in an aggressive manner, shoving his phallus as far as it would go.

"Lord, God!" the girl screamed out in agony, grabbing hold of Desmond's back and accepting the rough sex.

Roger watched his friend in disgust. _Nasty nigga._

__ Patrick supplied them with condoms, but Desmond chose to disregard their relevant purpose. He penetrated the girl without protection.

As Desmond gyrated inside the girl, she motioned for Roger to come over.

"Me?" asked Roger, pointing at himself.

With Desmond already inside her love-hole, he wondered what she wanted. He figured there was no other option but to wait his turn, but she was pointing at his crotch and then her mouth.

"Put it...in...here," said the girl between breaths.

Realizing the girl's intentions, Roger hesitated. _Is she serious?_

__ He'd never received fellatio before, such an act was outlawed back home. Females he crossed paths with considered oral-sex a blasphemous abomination, men the same. However, it seemed American girls felt otherwise, so he followed the girl's commands.

Taking out his penis, he approached the girl and placed it in her mouth. Her lips instantly wrapped his manhood giving an ecstatic feeling. _Oh my God!_

__ His eyes rolled back in his head as the girl, professionally, went up and down his shaft. His toes curled in his sneakers, involuntarily. _I can get use to this._

__ Roger and Desmond had their way with the female for the remainder of the day and far into the night.

Chapter 28

"This is where everyone from back home hangs out most of the time," said Patrick, parking his vehicle in front Robby Buckets. "Keep y'all guns cocked and ready, anything can happen here."

Selecting their firearms, Roger and Desmond hastily got out the car. Patrick's mention of potential danger heightened their anticipation of entering the bar. They yearned for action, and were anxious to make their stamp in America.

Everyone seemingly froze when the three entered the pub. Whispers resonated throughout the establishment as the trio maneuvered through the crowd, covert pointing's from present persons. Tension was in full bloom, patrons moved about skittishly.

Patrick could not refrain from smiling. Just as he expected, Roger and Desmond's presence would shake people up, his exact purpose for bringing the two along.

The duo was prominent among the Jamaican populace, recognized by all as _killing machines._ Prior to departing Jamaica, they'd been credited with over a hundred murders in the Kingston parish.

Moving to the rear section of the bar, Patrick approached two men sitting around a table.

"Tekki, what's up?" he asked one of the men.

"What's happening, Patrick?" responded Tekki, a medium sized man.

"Star, when am I getting paid for my things?" asked Patrick. "It's been a while now."

Roger and Desmond pierced Tekki and his friend.

"Star, you gave me some garbage, and I'm not paying for bullshit," protested Tekki. "If you want, I can give you back the food."

Sucking his teeth, Patrick stormed out the bar, followed by Roger and Desmond.

"Big man, you're just going to let that nigga speak to you that way?" asked Roger, uncomfortable with the way the next man addressed Patrick. "Let me burst that nigga's skull?"

"Deal with him," said Patrick without hesitation.

Reentering the bar, Roger and Desmond held weapons in plain view. People cleared the way, dispersing for the exit as they walked through the business place. Reaching the section where Tekki was seated earlier, they only saw the man's friend.

"Where's your friend?" asked Desmond.

"Listen, man, I'm fresh in America. I don't know anything about what's going on," calmly stated Tekki's friend.

"He never asked you that," joined in Roger, taking aim at the man. "Where's your friend?"

"Pussy!" shouted Desmond, taking aim at the man as Roger.

"I don't know where he ran off to," said the man, raising his hands. "I don't want any problems."

Roger and Desmond, simultaneously, fired their weapons at the man, riddling his body, shooting him out of his seat. They then stepped over the dead man emptying their weapons before running off.

Outside, Patrick awaited the boys inside his vehicle. When they were securely in the car, he raced off.

"Did y'all get him?" he anxiously asked.

"When we went inside, he wasn't there, but we got to his friend," answered Desmond.

"Fuck!" spat Patrick. "I sent y'all to do a job and y'all fucked up, already."

Patrick's tone made Roger embrace his pistol more firmly. _Who does he think he's talking to?_

__ Positioned directly behind Patrick in the back seat, it took everything to refrain from shooting the man.

"But, boss man, we got his friend," pleaded Desmond. "We can catch him a next time."

"I don't want to hear that shit!" Patrick blurted out. "This is Brooklyn, New York. You can't afford to miss an enemy, any time."

Making it to Newkirk Avenue, the three got out the ride and headed for the entrance of Patrick's building, which was crowded with rowdy Jamaicans.

Roger watched the crowd of mainly men with a cautious gaze. Though the majority on the avenue was of Southside stock, many of whom he knew from Jamaica, he settled on remaining alert, always.

New York seemed to lack a sense of order among the Jamaican community. The cutthroat environment clearly morphed certain individuals into specimens counteracting their true selves. Persons of no relevant stature back in Jamaica moved about as Dons in New York, leaving some in a mind-boggled state. New York's free atmosphere saved these transformers from punishable penalties they'd receive in Jamaica's hardcore ghettoes.

"Faucet Lane!" yelled someone.

Together, Roger and Desmond turned to the individual who called out their gang.

"Oh, shit!" shouted Desmond. "That's you, Lucky?"

"In the flesh," voiced Lucky, moving to the boys.

"What's good, my nigga?"

"I'm here."

"What's good, Lucky?" Roger asked.

"I'm here, Roger," said Lucky.

"Let's go!" yelled Patrick, signaling for Roger and Desmond to follow him inside the building.

Roger cringed when Patrick motioned for him to follow. _Who the fuck does he think he is?_

"Y'all better go before Mr. Pink Lane calls his Shower friends," laughed Lucky, rolling his eyes at Patrick.

"Lucky, we're going to link," said Desmond, giving his friend a hug before walking off.

"Lucky," called Roger. "We're going to link."

"Yes, Roger. Bless," said Lucky.

Walking inside the building, Roger made up his mind to depart from Patrick's circumference. He would not be bossed around, the man's obvious motive. As the leader of one of Kingston's most notorious gangs, he refused to be led by another man.

Chapter 29

News of Desmond's arrival in New York caught Cutie off guard. She figured her friend would have been murdered by the police in Jamaica before ever reaching the big city of dreams, but, by the grace of God, he escaped the pits of Kingston.

Tales of Desmond's exploits circulated everywhere, his brave, courageous antics. He'd become a calculated cold-blooded killer, an unmerciful murderer. Known for committing heinous crimes at the drop of a dime, people stayed clear of him and his gang, _and_ his domain, Southside. Police and gunmen alike, hunted him just as he hunted them. His reputation surpassed many of Kingston's most notorious outlaws. He was a force to be reckoned with.

A recent murder, attributed to Desmond, touched home, precipitating a flare up in her household. Her child's father's colleague was supposedly assassinated by her dear friend, giving rise to ridicule because of her affiliation with Southside. Verbal and physical abuse followed the infraction. She was beaten by her baby's father for her friend's actions.

Upon arriving in New York, Cutie was introduced to Tekki by a friend. The older man instantly began to court her, showering her with gifts and promises. When finally giving in to his advances, he impregnated her, leaving her to raise a child practically on her own. Whenever he did come around, it was always in a negative state toward her.

Desmond's actions would definitely be counteracted. Tekki would never allow his soldiers to be violated without some form of retaliation.

Originating in Majesty Gardens (Back-To), Tekki led a gang of murderers from the west Kingston community. Fleeing Jamaica after the JLP's defeat of his beloved PNP, he maintained a firm presence on Rutland Road in the 90's section of East Flatbush, Brooklyn. He played the frontline in every war his gang fought, shooting down rivals when the opportunity presented itself. All throughout Brooklyn, he controlled countless marijuana gates. His repute stretched a distance among prominent figures in New York.

Fully aware of her baby's father reputation, Cutie was also in cognizance of her friend's deadly repute.

A battle between both parties would shake the streets of Brooklyn. The fray would be extensive and bloody.

Cutie hoped things didn't get out of hand, but she knew better. _Things are definitely going to get out of hand._

Chapter 30

Local drug addicts scurried about in search of the next hit, moving to-and-fro on a courtyard inside Vanderveer Projects. Dealers openly served the druggies, blatantly disrespecting some during the process.

"Get the fuck out of here, you fucking crack-head!" shouted one dealer, kicking an addict in the backside.

"I'm not taking any shorts, you fucking bitch!" shouted another dealer, tossing currency in an addict's face.

Lucky, Roger and Desmond watched the ongoing spectacle from a secluded area on the courtyard. They all laughed at the unmerciful scenery.

"Lucky, these fucking crack-heads have no shame," laughed Desmond. "Your workers are disrespecting them all."

"I'm telling you, man," giggled Lucky. "You haven't seen anything yet."

Roger pierced the atmosphere with an eagle eye, taking in everything of relevance. The grimy terrain piqued his interest; Vanderveer was a sight to see.

__ "Lucky, there's a lot of crack-heads out here," mentioned an enthused Desmond.

"Yeah, man, I'm making lots of money," responded Lucky.

"So, what's going on with the Faucet Lane soldiers?" butted in Roger.

He noticed Lucky' workers consisted of mainly black American teenagers.

"Star, for some reason, the soldiers don't like it over here, I've sent for them on many occasions. They prefer to be on Newkirk or Parkside," Lucky explained.

"Okay," said Roger shaking his head.

"I don't see the problem with over here. It's a lot of money here."

"What's going on with you and Patrick?"

Roger recalled the night on Newkirk Avenue when the two men exhumed a sort of disdain for one another.

"Star, Patrick is a pussy!" blurted out Lucky. "All he wants is for the soldiers to be around him to make him seem more powerful in everyone else's eyes."

"Lucky, Patrick is my Don," voiced Desmond. "Y'all are going to have to work things out."

"I hear you, my Don. But you'll soon see what I'm talking about," said Lucky.

"5-O, 5-O!" shouted a local addict, running past the trio.

"Come on, y'all!" yelled Lucky, leading the boys inside a nearby building.

Confused, Roger and Desmond trailed Lucky.

Inside the building, Lucky fumbled through a large stack of keys before making way upstairs to a second-floor apartment.

"Come in," he said in a rushed manner, letting the perplexed boys in the pad.

Rushing to a window inside the apartment, he looked outside.

A few police officers led a handcuffed man out a building.

"Shit!" he whispered when seeing who the cops apprehended.

"What's going on?" asked Roger.

"The motherfuckers arrested my friend. Somebody is snitching around here."

"When can we roll out?"

"As soon as the cops clear out, we can roll out."

Chapter 31

Watching Brooklyn's unpredictable streets from the passenger seat of a moving vehicle, Tekki fumed inwardly. His friend was innocently murdered by Southside thugs, and he wanted blood for the act.

"Turn on Newkirk Avenue," he ordered the ride's driver.

Palming a .40 caliber pistol, he could think of nothing more than murder. Someone had to die, it was imperative, necessary. He would not let his gang down.

His patience had not been tested for some time. Usually, people stayed out his way, fearing the outcome of a conflict with his gang, which always resulted in bloodletting. Nothing changed since his departure from Jamaica. As back home, he remained a murderous being, who accepted all challenges.

"Who's that?" he asked, pointing at someone moving on the avenue.

"That's just young youth," answered the driver.

"Got to kill them young, before they grow up and kill you. Pull over."

Before the car came to a complete halt, Tekki hopped out and moved toward the lone figure on the avenue.

"Hey, South boy," he called out before opening fire on the youth.

The male tried running but was cut down by a hail of bullets.

Racing back to the car, Tekki got inside.

"Drive," he ordered the driver.

He was not satisfied, he wanted more blood. His friend was murdered for no reason; everyone of Southside stock had to pay

"I feel like killing some more Laborites," he said. "Pass by 'Buckets."

_____

A strange vehicle crept slowly on the avenue near Robby Buckets, catching Roger's attention. Before he got the chance to reach for his weapon, though, the car accelerated its speed, moving his way.

"Dezzie, get low," he shouted, dragging his friend to the ground.

Loud explosions resonated from the passing vehicle. Bullets flew in all directions cutting down unfortunate victims on the scene.

Getting hold of his weapon, Roger fired back at the fleeing vehicle until the chamber rang empty.

"Fucking pussy!" he voiced, highly upset at the ordeal.

"Who was that?" asked Desmond, getting to his feet.

"It looked like the nigga Tekki."

Roger was almost positive Tekki was the shooter, he and the man made eye contact as the vehicle sprinted by.

"Now you see why Patrick wanted that nigga dead," said Desmond.

As people filed out the bar after the shooting stopped, Roger eyed the congregation. Anyone could have set them up, so he watched everyone.

"Let's roll out," he said, tapping Desmond. "The police will soon be here."

Chapter 32

Newkirk Avenue's latest casualty resulted in a heightened police presence in the neighborhood. Lawmen occupied every intersecting street along the avenue, policemen walked up and down the thoroughfare at twenty-minute intervals.

Looking out the window from his apartment, Patrick let out a long sigh. He could see a makeshift memorial on the street below for the individual murdered, who so happened to be his nephew. _Fuck!_

Since the incident, he hadn't gotten any sleep. Innumerable calls came to his phone, but he couldn't find the strength to speak to anyone. He ignored everyone.

His nephew's death was beyond heartfelt, so much he couldn't cope with the public. His eyes swelled from crying, regrets filled his mind. _Why did they have to kill him?_

__ He heard the shots the night of the incident, but had no idea it was his nephew being murdered. Shootings were a regular occurrence on Newkirk Avenue, so he paid no mind to the blasts the night. It was not until he was informed it was his kin killed that he ran outside, where he saw his nephew sprawled on the ground with multiple bullet wounds to his body.

The night, a close source disclosed the identity of the shooters, which only added to the pain he was enduring. His past transgressions were the cause of his nephew's early death. The shooters were obviously out hunting for _anyone_ of Southside origin on Newkirk Avenue and happened upon his nephew.

The Back-To gang was responsible.

He had to get himself together, though, regardless the difficulty of the process. His nephew would not just die in vain, he promised himself. Heads would roll in Brooklyn for the deeply felt violation.

_____

Roger contemplated the next move while smoking a joint and sipping a cup of Hennessy. Relocating to Lincoln Road in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, he stayed amongst members of the Fleet Street Renkers Posse from Southside, who were abundant in the particular section of the borough. Proceeding with extreme caution in the mist of the Renkers,' he went outside only when necessary.

The certain gang was caught up in a heated conflict with a rival outfit from the McGregor Gully section of East Kingston, Jamaica. Both cliques fought back and forth, neither letting up on the other, turning Crown Heights into one of the deadliest parts of Brooklyn.

Solidifying the Faucet Lane gang among Kingston's underworld elite was the goal; Roger would see things no other way. Elevating an _already_ established gang's position was out of the question, thus, he stayed clear of the Renkers' and 'Gully beef.

Disconnecting himself from Patrick, he came to the realization the man was not a warrior. _He only harbored them._

The little time he spent with Patrick revealed a lot.

Lucky was right about what he said. Patrick only wanted to use individuals to further his position in the Jamaican community in New York.

Roger decided to step out on his own and get right to work at instituting the Faucet Lane gang on the streets of New York in an organized manner. Communicating with members of the cabal in each borough, he stressed the need of an allowance for residents back home in a destitute state. New York's lucrative drug market was obviously great to many of the gang's members, so he saw no reason for the deprivation of anyone back in Southside when residents of the community in America were doing well. He further pressed for members to gather up funds to purchase weapons for Jamaica's approaching election. The campaign was expected to be a bloody one, and he wanted combatants and non-combatants to be safe.

Standing as the _only_ JLP community in Central/Eastern Jamaica, the small pocket known as Southside was surrounded by rival PNP areas. Areas such as Spoilers, Dunkirk, Rockfort, Boa Bank and Allman Town assisted Tel Aviv in the fight against Southside, earnestly attempting to dismantle the community once and for all.

Errol, who'd made quite a name for himself in New York, was sending barrels filled with guns and ammunitions to his Tel Aviv gang to put to use in Parade Gardens. The Tel Aviv Don made it known he wanted the entire Central Kingston under his control, and he'd do anything possible to accomplish the feat.

Moving to his room's window, Roger observed as Renkers' members scrambled about serving drug addicts. He doubted he could participate in such activity, he would much rather function as the supplier of drug dealers. _In due time._

__ Searching for something to wear to an event Lucky invited him to, he settled on a full green linen suit and platform shoes of the same hue. _Laborite uniform._

__ This would be his first time attending a party in New York, and he was excited. He couldn't wait for Lucky to pick him up.

Chapter 33

Brooklyn's Africa House nightclub was filled with partygoers out enjoying the coming of the New Year, 1988. The large club was packed with persons from various parts of Brooklyn. People maneuvered about in celebratory form, popping champagne bottles while shouting expletives of joy for the approaching year.

Well-known figures from within the borough's criminal underworld showed up in numbers to celebrate as everyone else. Certain crews aligned sections of the club, rivals and friends alike were present. Tension was thick in the air, but the gangs remained calm and alert.

Entering the jam, a sense of uneasiness instantly fell over Roger. Trailing Lucky through the dense crowd, he noticed Natty Blacks was in attendance. Positioned in the center of a large Southside contingent, the older Don watched him with a look of disdain. Returning Natty Blacks' gesture, he, also, peered at everyone with the Don, many of whom he knew from Jamaica. If anything happened, he would be coming back for them all. _Straight up!_

Finding a section in the club, Lucky walked off to buy some bottles of champagne, leaving him alone. Watching the crowd of mainly Jamaicans, his heart raced when catching sight of an individual standing with a group of mean faced men and women, all of who looked his way. The man kept a steady eye on him.

"Fuck!" he mumbled under his breath.

Discretely adjusting a gun on his waist, which he got in the club through associates of Lucky, he got in defense mode. The situation seemed on the verge of explosion, but he remained as calm as possible. Looking from Natty Blacks' gang to the other rival gang, he gripped his pistol with all his might.

A Tenor Saw tune blared from huge speakers, causing an eruption of sorts. Partygoers sounded off air horns following the song's spin.

"Pull up!" voiced the selector over the microphone. "This is one of the best artists coming out of Jamaica!"

As the soundmen graced the turntable with another spin of the Tenor Saw tune, Natty Blacks and his gang departed the club.

Roger began to grow nervous. He wondered what was taking Lucky so long to return. _Where the fuck is this nigga at?_

__ The other rival gang's departure made him even more leery. _Fuck!_

__ A female's sudden emergence caused him to take out his gun in plain view.

"Roger, it's me, Cutie," said the female.

Roger had to look closer to realize the female was actually Cutie from Foster Lane.

"Cutie, you look different. You got real healthy," he mentioned, admiring her curves.

"You have to leave, Roger," said Cutie. "My baby's father and his gang said they are going to kill you tonight."

"Huh?"

Roger was taken aback by Cutie's caveat. _Her baby's father?_

Nevertheless, there was no time to ponder subjects of irrelevant value. He had to get to safety.

Deciding to __ depart on his own, he was surprised to see Lucky headed his way with a few of his American workers from Vanderveer in tow, all armed with firearms.

Making way to the club's exit, the dense crowd parted way as they maneuvered through.

"Lucky!" shouted a woman. "Don't go out there. There are a lot of guys waiting on you and your friend. Wait on the police to arrive."

Waiting on the cops to materialize was out of the question; Roger would not wait on the lawmen's assistance. Rushing outside, he fired at a group of heavily armed men from the other rival gang that was eyeing him inside the club. He could tell he caught the men off guard, they all scrambled for cover.

Lucky and his soldiers followed Roger, firing at the other group.

Making it to their car, Roger and Lucky made a haste retreat.

Chapter 34

As Desmond packed pounds of marijuana inside a few duffel bags, he thought of the violation he was inflicting upon Patrick. The older man made a business move out of town, leaving him to watch over his goods and money. Tired of being treated as a foot soldier, coupled with Roger's chastisement for being such, he made the ultimate decision to rob the man.

Once through packing away Patrick's marijuana and money, he called Roger.

"How much did you get?" Roger asked.

"Three hundred pounds of weed and one hundred thousand cash," answered Desmond.

"Okay. I'm downstairs waiting."

"Cool."

Hanging up the phone, Desmond looked around the apartment once more for anything else of value. Coming across a photo of Patrick in Jamaica, he reflected on the mission at hand. The man had treated him well growing up, there was no doubt it. Days and nights when he was hungry, he could travel down the lane to the man's yard to get bite. It hurt to have to be the one to violate Patrick, but it was time for him to make moves on his own.

Exiting the apartment, he saw Roger waiting near a staircase.

"Help me with these bags," he said.

Roger hurried over to assist his friend.

_____

Parking a brand-new Toyota Cressida on Rutland Road in the 90s, Errol exited his car and inhaled the air outside, deeply. He'd been away on business for weeks and was happy to be home. There was no place like Brooklyn. He loved every part of the diverse borough.

Becoming deeply entrenched in the hustling game, he flew to California on a monthly basis to purchase marijuana and cocaine from a Mexican he befriended. He then had the drugs shipped back to New York by way of a tractor-trailer truck. Once the product reached safely, he distributed the goods to various individuals throughout the state who usually paid for the drugs upfront. From there, he began the entire process over again.

America's lucrative atmosphere granted him access to many amenities he never thought he would see in life. Making it out the ghetto seemed impossible, but he'd made it to riches in a foreign land. A certified drug-lord, he obtained millions from the illicit drug trade, many of which he pumped back into Tel Aviv and various other locations in Jamaica.

There was no place like home, and he would never forget where he came from. Thus, he helped out every resident in Tel Aviv. As long as things were well in America, he would assist his people in Jamaica.

Reaching his apartment on East 94th Street, he hopped right in bed. He had a long day and needed some rest, but his phone would not stop ringing.

"Power," he finally answered.

"Power, my Don," retorted someone on the other end of the line.

"I haven't heard anything about them two. They're still running around Brooklyn?"

"Yes, Don, those two are becoming a real problem out here."

"So, what's going on with Tekki? He hasn't dealt with them as yet?"

"Not as yet, and you know that's unlike Tekki. The one named Roger actually shot a few of Tekki's soldiers outside a dance the other night. He made the Back-To boss look like a sucker."

"I'm a call you back."

Errol hung up the phone and went into contemplative mode. Roger and Desmond's presence could be detrimental to what he had going on, he had to get rid of them. _As soon as possible._

Chapter 35

Cutie could not breathe. Tekki choked her with all his might. She felt as if she was going to pass out, but tried holding on for her son, who was present.

"Daddy, don't do that to mommy!" he cried out.

"Shut the fuck up, little boy!" Tekki screamed at his son. "Go in your fucking room."

The little boy ran off, crying.

"You're going to die today, bitch!" Tekki fumed. "You told your South friends about me the night in the dance."

Scratching at Tekki's eyes, he finally released his tight hold, allowing Cutie to sprint for the room her son ran to. Inside, she closed the door, locking Tekki out.

"Open the fucking door!" screamed Tekki, kicking on the door.

"I'm not opening shit!" yelled back Cutie, holding onto to her son.

Tekki then fired two rounds into the closed door.

A bullet shattered an ornament near Cutie's head. Dragging her son to the ground, she silently prayed to be delivered out of the current situation. _Please, God, help me out of this one._

__ A door slammed shut outside the room, signifying Tekki had left, but she was not taking any chances. Covering her shaken up son more, she decided to wait things out.

Chapter 36

Jamaica's coming election ignited an untamable firefight among political mercenaries throughout Kingston. Unmerciful acts of violence engulfed the capital's streets. Men, women, and children were slaughtered, killed with no remorse. Entire communities were burned to the ground by enemy forces on each side of the political fence. The war raged out of control, no one was exempt from the genocidal atrocity in effect.

Obtaining leadership from Desmond and Roger abroad, Itchy and Bulla controlled Southside with a firm grip. The duo distributed weapons, sent by their Dons in America, to soldiers under their control. From the confines of Foster Lane, they called the shots.

Applying extreme pressure in the community, they barred children on the Tel Aviv side of the area from attending schools in the neighborhood, all of which were located in the Southside section of Parade Gardens. They set troops at every entry point in the community, with specific orders to kill anyone trying to penetrate the area. Each day, they sent members out on murderous missions. Nothing was off limits. They even did battle with the police force, regularly. They were labeled by government officials, the worst thing to ever happen to Kingston, Jamaica.

Journeying through Parade Gardens in a stolen vehicle, the duo searched for _any_ resident of Tel Aviv origin.

"I'm going to kill any motherfucker I catch out here," said Itchy, staring the vehicle through the area.

"Me, too," Bulla giggled.

Passing Rosemary Lane, Itchy brought the car to an abrupt halt.

"Look at this dumb bitch," he said, eyeing a young female walking along Barry Street. "Go and get her."

Bulla jumped out the vehicle in a flash, moving to the girl with added speed.

"Don't move!" her ordered, placing a gun to the girl's side.

"Oh my God," voiced the girl. "Please don't kill me."

Surveying the surrounding area for police or enemies, Bulla pushed his gun further into the girl's side.

"Get inside the car before I burst your skull," he commanded.

Without protest, the girl got inside the car.

"You must not know its war time," laughed Itchy, driving off once the two were inside the car.

Taking the girl to an abandoned yard in Southside, the boys tied her to a pole.

Perspiration filled the girl's horrified face.

"Please don't kill me," she cried.

"Shut the fuck up!" yelled Itchy, placing a gun to the girl's head.

The girl went silent, tears poured from her eyes.

"Where do you live?" Itchy asked.

"I live on Rosemary Lane and Laws Street," cried the girl.

"Ohhh, you're from Tel Aviv."

"Yes."

"Where does Top Rankin stay?"

"And if you lie to us, you're going to die," interjected Bulla, showing the female his exposed gun.

"He stays on Johns Lane," answered the girl.

"How do you know that?" asked Itchy, surprised the girl answered the question with such certainty.

"He is my cousin."

Itchy looked at Bulla and smiled.

Bulla licked his huge lips. His venomous, squinted eyes blinked wildly. His medium sized frame shivered in anticipation of a coming event. His mind raced with evil thoughts.

For months, the two had been hunting Top Rankin, Tel Aviv's top enforcer, but could never get a hold of the ardent foe. The girl's revelation was music to their ears. Since they could not get to their most dreaded enemy, they would take out their anger on his family.

Itchy untied the girl.

"If you try anything, I'm going to kill you," he warned.

He then began to disrobe the girl, who cried more as he went about stripping her. Tears never drove him to remorse; many past victims expressed the same sentiments, to no avail.

Growing up in Parade Gardens, he'd seen and experienced poverty in its purest form. Raised inside one room occupied by his mother and three siblings, in a Foster Lane tenement yard, his only hope was to make it out the ghetto to help his family. Many a night he went to bed hungry, without food. The majority of times, his mother was unable to feed or cloth him and his siblings. Thus, he took it to the streets, his only other option.

On Foster Lane, he found refuge away from the confinement of his cramped one room living quarters. Gangsters along the lane embraced him with open arms, granting him the opportunity to run errands for a couple of dollars. Starting out at as reconnaissance for gunmen invading other communities, he graduated to a young soldier sent out on killing missions. Life shifted for the best when he became embedded in the gangster lifestyle.

"Get on the ground!" he shouted at the girl.

The girl obliged, lying her exposed back on the concrete ground.

Passing his weapon to Bulla, Itchy had his way with the girl.

The duo raped the girl for hours before finally killing her with a bullet to the head.

Chapter 37

Desmond's robbery of Patrick gave Roger a significant head-start in hustling endeavors. Instead of beginning, as some, on a hand-to-hand street level, he started out as a major supplier. People purchased pounds of marijuana from him on a daily basis. Situating a Newkirk Avenue base for the Faucet Lane gang, he eventually converted into a dominant force on the thoroughfare, implementing rules for those who wished to hustle on the drag.

"I don't want any outsiders hustling on the avenue, this is for the people of Southside," he'd warned his gang. "It's a new day."

Setting up multiple marijuana apartments along the avenue, locals purchased bagged-up herb from his booming gates, alone. Impeders were persecuted with bullet wounds, without hesitation from Faucet Lane gang enforcers. The growing enterprise brought in nearly one hundred thousand dollars at the end of any given week.

The sole detester of the operation, Patrick, was sent on his way with a bullet to the abdomen, inflicted by Roger himself.

Threats of revenge for Desmond's disloyalty, made by Patrick, reached Roger's ears. He then waited for the man to materialize on the avenue, as he knew he would.

"What's going on, Patrick?" he asked, walking toward the man.

"Fuck you!" spat Patrick, backing up, realizing what Roger was up to. "You and Dezzie are some ungrateful motherfuckers!"

Before Patrick got the chance to run away, Roger fired a single round into the man's stomach area, dropping him. Standing over the man, he aimed his gun at Patrick.

"I'm going to give you a chance to leave Brooklyn for good," he said. "If you survive this gunshot, the next time I see you, I'm going to kill you."

Patrick never came back around after the shooting, but continued to send threats.

Hustling endeavors granted Roger the privilege to take care of residents back in Southside. He sent _barrels_ filled with guns and goods to the community on a monthly basis, with instructions to dish out food supplies equally among residents of the neighborhood. His enforcers, Itchy and Bulla, were in charge of dispensing the firepower to mercenaries.

He felt in depth to Southside, which was marred by one of the deadliest wars in Kingston's history of existence. His dedication to the community spoke volumes, residents of Southside, in Jamaica and abroad, loved him for not forgetting where he came from. He was approached regularly in Brooklyn by persons from Southside who expressed gratitude for his assistance at helping their families back home. He refused to function as some who'd left Jamaica and never looked back.

Lighting a joint, Roger blew a cloud of smoke into the air, glad to be in New York.

_____

Driving on Flatbush Avenue in a reckless manner, Desmond was high off crack-cocaine, the latest drug he experimented with and became hooked to. Maneuvering through traffic like a mad man, he made a squalling turn onto Parkside Avenue, nearly crashing into a parked car. A bottle of liquor sat in his lap, which he'd been taking swigs of at every stop light. The combination of both drugs left him in a state of paranoia.

He felt like someone(s) was out to get him, so he palmed a gun with the same hand he steered the car with. Reaching Robby Buckets, he drove onto the sidewalk next to the bar, nearly running over a few pedestrians during the process. Staggering out the vehicle, he shoved his gun inside his pant waist and headed inside the bar.

A dense night crowd occupied Robby Buckets, many of who cleared the way as Desmond moved through, unconsciously bumping into people.

Taking out a large wad of cash, Desmond approached the bar area.

"Let me have some white rum, bartender," he said, placing a few notes on the bar's table.

Once the bartender handed him his drink, he went to the center of the bar and danced to a Yellow Man song playing. Patrons stepped out his way as he danced about with his eyes closed, caring nothing of those present.

"Star, isn't that Dezzie from Faucet Lane?" one man asked another.

"Yeah, that's him," responded another man. "I hear he's addicted to the rock now."

Dancing over to a group of Southside men he was familiar with, Desmond placed his drink on a table.

"Faucet Lane, Don!" he shouted, beating on his chest. "I run Southside, go and ask about me."

"Dezzie, chill out, man, you're drunk. Have a seat before you hurt yourself," said one of the Southside men with concern.

Wobbling in place, Desmond eyed the man who'd spoken up.

"What, pussy," he yelled, rushing toward the man, who moved out the way causing him to stumble onto the floor.

Reaching for his weapon, he rose to his feet to shoot the man, but was, once again, thrown to the floor by the impact of a discharged firearm, which shot a slug through his shoulder.

Pandemonium ensued in the bar following the weapons report, people ran for the exit in a disorderly, haste fashion.

Resuming his attempt of getting to his weapon, the man he'd tried shooting grabbed the weapon from his waist.

"Move and dead, pussy!" threatened the man, aiming a gun at Desmond.

"Don't kill him," voiced another man. "He's drunk."

The shooter looked down at Desmond once more before running off.

Lying on the floor in a drug induced state, Desmond cursed himself for allowing the man to get the drop on him. Forcing himself to his feet, he was met by a couple police officers.

"Hey, guy, are you okay?" asked one officer.

"Yes, sir, I'm okay," Desmond lied, trying to walk by the officers.

One officer grabbed Desmond's arm.

"You're bleeding pretty bad, buddy. Have a seat and wait on an ambulance to arrive," said the officer.

Jerking loose of the officer's grasp, Desmond tried running for the exit but was tackled to the floor. The police then searched him finding bundles of crack-cocaine rock. He was then handcuffed on the spot.

Chapter 38

Dismantling weapons to be shipped off to Jamaica, theBack-To gang discussed the island's coming election in one of their pads.

"We have to arm up the soldiers back in the community," voiced Tekki. "Those fucking Laborites are attacking the neighborhood daily."

"For real, bossy. Everyday day someone is dying in the Majesty,'" said a man present.

"The Southies are going on bad down in yard," said another man. "Last week alone they killed ten people from Tel Aviv."

"They better stay in Southside with that shit," spat Tekki.

His disdain for Southside reached a point of no return. Individuals from the particular community brought their antics to the shores of America, getting in the way of his business dealings in Brooklyn. The recent war between his gang and Southside men altered many relationships with other JLP gangsters in the borough, who made ultimate decisions to stick with their kind.

Back-To and Southside's fray caused for lines to be drawn, all JLP Brooklyn gangs were targeting PNP thugs, and vice versa.

"I'm going to send an order to kill three Laborites with this one," said Tekki, holding up an AK47 assault rifle. "I refuse to let up on them Laborites for what they did to our friend."

His friend's murder ignited a raging fire inside himself that could not be tamed. He learned the identity of the shooters, Roger and Desmond, and made a vow to not stop killing Laborites until the two were dead. _Straight._

Chapter 39

Cruising in his brand-new Mazda 929 along Church Avenue, Roger felt at ease as he swerved through traffic on the business-oriented thoroughfare. The particular avenue was one of his favorites. It reminded him a lot of Kingston.

Various individuals of different ethnic groups crowded Church Avenue daily. Caribbean establishments aligned the drag. West Indian vendors aligned the street. Aromas of distinct cuisines filled the air. The homely atmosphere felt welcoming.

Roger loved Brooklyn's diversity.

Turning onto a residential street, he slammed on the car's brake. _Damn!_

__ "Excuse me, beautiful," he called to a female walking on the street. "May I have a word with you?"

Clouds filled the sky, signaling rain on the horizon.

Roger figured the female might need a ride home to escape the advent of a downpour.

"Yes," responded the female, stopping to speak.

Quickly double parking his car, Roger hopped out the vehicle.

"Hello, there. My name is Roger," he said putting out his hand for a shake.

An up-close glance revealed the female's captivating beauty. _Beautiful._

Her facial structure resembled that of a goddess. A set of piercing light brown eyes complimented her mocha skin tone. Long brown hair covered her head. A voluptuous figure showed through her outfit.

"I'm Desire," said the female, accepting Roger's hand for a shake.

"You are a beautiful woman, Desire. I had to stop for you."

Desire blushed in appreciation of Roger's compliment.

"Thank you," she said.

A sudden downpour fell from the sky.

"Oh shit, Desire. Come and get in the car," said Roger, moving for his car.

"That's okay," said Desire, opening an umbrella and placing it over her head. "You can come under if you like, though."

Accepting Desire's offer, Roger got underneath the umbrella.

Being so close to the girl brought on a feeling of nervier.

"Damn, man, your beauty has me feeling nervous," he mentioned, embarrassed by his obvious skittishness.

"Thank you," smiled Desire.

"If I give you my number, will you call me?"

"No."

Dumbfounded, Roger looked at Desire perplexed. _What the fuck?_

__ "So, may I have yours?" he hesitantly asked.

"Yes, you may," laughed Desire. "Do you have a pen?"

Running to his car to retrieve a pen and piece of paper, Roger rushed back to Desire handing her the items.

Desire wrote down her number on the paper and handed it to Roger.

"Do you want a ride home?" Roger asked. "It's pouring out."

"No thanks. I live right here, anyway," said Desire, walking to the house the two were standing in front of.

Roger laughed out.

"Okay, you're slick," he smiled.

"Very," responded Desire.

Rushing to his car, Roger felt excited he got Desire's number. Putting the car in gear, he departed for home.

Chapter 40

An addict's funny movements put Lucky on the alert. Keeping a keen eye on the individual, he scoped the court for any sort of out of place activity.

"What's up?" he called out to the addict moving his way.

"Lucky, a black car keeps circling the neighborhood. I think you should check it out," said the addict.

Taking a .357 magnum from his waist, Lucky placed the gun as far as it would go in his pant pocket while keeping a tight grip on the pistol. He'd recently murdered a Back-To gangster in the neighborhood and had been anticipating retaliatory reactions from the particular gang.

Stepping off the court onto Foster Avenue, he ran into one of his worker's.

"What's good, boss man?" asked the worker.

"Nothing much," answered Lucky.

"I have a few thousand put down for you upstairs. You're ready for it now."

"I'll stop by in a few."

"Cool."

"But let me ask you something."

"What's good?"

"Have you seen a black car circling the area?"

"Not that I can recall."

"Okay, cool. We'll catch up."

"For sure, boss."

The worker saluted Lucky with the wave of a hand before stepping off.

Leaning on a fence, Lucky watched the avenue. Within minutes of his worker walking off, a black car emerged on the scene fitting the addict's description. Inside, though, he saw two white men, both of who looked his way wearing smirks.

Backtracking inside the projects, he raced to one of his apartments to pack. He had to leave the area, immediately. The men in the black car were not the ordinary policemen who harassed his workers day to day, they were federal agents. _Shit._

__ The Feds were on to him, he had to get out of dodge before they closed in on a dragnet mission inside the projects.

__ Once through packing, he relaxed a bit. He had to maintain his composure. The matter at hand was serious, he had to keep focused.

Sticking around would be unwise, he had to leave Vanderveer, and Brooklyn all together, as soon as possible. _Damn._

Heading out the apartment, he looked back inside the pad, once more. It hurt to have to leave so suddenly, but he had no choice in the matter. Shaking his head in disappointment, he closed the door and departed.

Chapter 41

Exiting Rikers Island's adolescent unit, Desmond was happy to be a free man, again. _Thank you, Jah Jah!_

__ The experience of confinement was startling, but he held firm in the barbaric environment, taking an unbending stance against the dominant African American gangs who treated West Indians as outcasts. He fought every day until his release, refusing to allow oppressive forces the opportunity to walk over his people.

Roger awaited him inside a vehicle outside the jail.

"You're a free man," smiled Roger, signaling for Desmond to get inside the ride.

"Yes," smiled Desmond, getting in the car. _Thank you, Jah!_

__ "Hold this," said Roger, passing Desmond a gun.

Accepting the pistol, Desmond selected a bullet in the weapon's chamber before resting it on his lap. The presence of the firearm rejuvenated his mental; it was time to get back to action.

"Let's circle around the 90s," he said. "I want to catch one of them Back-To niggas slipping."

"Cool," smiled Roger.

Making it to Brooklyn, Roger rode around the 90s in search of enemies.

Desmond could not wait to put in some work. Piercing the street outside, he silently prayed an enemy would appear.

"Bingo," sounded Roger, pointing at a boy moving for a building on 96th Street.

"Drive up on him, family," anxiously voiced Desmond, lowering his window.

As Roger drove toward the foe, Desmond aimed his weapon out the window.

The boy rushed to enter a building when seeing the two, but it was too late.

Desmond opened fire, riddling the boy's body.

"Faucet!" he shouted as Roger calmly drove off.

Chapter 42

Adding a last touch of makeup to her face, Desire looked over her job in the mirror. Searching her face for any blemishes, she prayed for perfection. She hoped for a great night. _Please, God, let everything go right._

A car horn sounded off outside, indicating Roger had arrived.

Checking her wristwatch, the time read 8PM. _He's on time._ Taking a final glance in the mirror, she went out to meet Roger. __

Roger sat out front her house in a seemingly new Toyota Cressida, dark in hue. _Nice._ Nosy neighbors watched as she entered the crisp vehicle, but she cared none. Her business was no one else's.

"What's up?" greeted Roger, trying his best American accent.

"You're getting better," complimented Desire.

She'd been teaching Roger, by way of phone, how to tighten up his American accent. He seemed strongly interested in learning the country's vernacular, so she saw no problem with assisting. During telephone conversations, they went back and forth about the meaning and pronunciation of certain words. He hated to feel as if people were talking over his head, a plight she could relate to at one point in time. Also, of Jamaican origin, she'd been down the same road.

"I know. My friend's call me Roger Yankee now," he joked.

They both laughed out.

"So, where are you taking me?" asked Desire.

"I'm taking you to Red Lobster," answered Roger.

The two made small talk until finally pulling into the parking lot of a Red Lobster chain in Queens/Long Island. However, the line to get inside the lobster franchise was very long, so they settled on catching a movie in the nearby Sunrise movie theater.

Desire felt comfortable in Roger's presence. The dark-complexioned stunner held her waist as they walked, igniting butterflies in her stomach. She'd yet to sleep with him, but knew she would. His serious demeanor, devilish eyes, and gentlemen mannerisms fit the description of the man of her dreams. He was everything she ever wanted.

They watched Bruce Willis's latest action flick, _Die Hard,_ which grabbed Roger's attention so much he could not stop talking about the movie following its conclusion.

Desire laughed at Roger's enthusiasm with the movie.

On the way to the car, Desire noticed four strange men following, all with their hands near their waists.

"Roger, do you see those guys?" she nervously whispered.

"Long time," said Roger, keeping his head straight. "They've been trailing us since we left the theater."

"What are we going to do? They look like they're carrying guns."

"I want for you to run and duck behind that car when I tell you to," said Roger, covertly motioning toward a nearby car.

"Roger, what's going on?"

Desire was growing scared.

"Just do what I say!" Roger barked.

Roger's tone made Desire jump. She wanted to protest, but remained quiet.

"Run!" Roger commanded.

Breaking into a sprint, Desire dashed for the car Roger ordered her behind.

Loud explosions resonated on the other side of the car, startling her. Tears welled up in her eyes as she thought of the worst.

Would she be killed? Would Roger be killed?

Just when she thought life had come to a head, someone grabbed her from behind. Looking up, she saw it was Roger.

"Come on," he said, pulling Desire along.

They ran to Roger's car, getting inside.

Desire sat silent as Roger drove. She could not believe what she endured on a first date with the man. It was obvious someone wanted him dead, and could have ended up killing her attempting to get to him. Any girl would back away from such a person, but, oddly, she admired the way he handled things. He never seemed nervous for a second, and did everything possible to protect her from harm. _I could fuck with this nigga._

__ Stealing a glimpse at Roger every few minutes, she noticed he was seemingly focused on the road, silent. He never looked her way for a second; it was as if he were driving alone. Even when he pulled up to her house, he kept his head straight, avoiding eye contact with her.

"I don't know about what took place tonight," she started, "and I don't care. Just call me when you get home so I can know you reached in safe."

Roger looked over at Desire and smiled.

"Cool," he said.

Chapter 43

A young male lied in a casket dressed in an all red suit. Mourners filed pass the casket paying final respects to the youth, who was gunned down in the 90s a week prior. Many were in attendance, family and friends of the boy, who'd only recently come to America.

Standing near the boy's casket, Tekki cried behind dark shades. Tears poured from his eyes, uncontrollably. No matter how hard he tried, he could not stop them from flowing.

"My son," he whimpered in a low tone.

How had he out lived his child? Why was his son taken away from him so prematurely?

The night his son was murdered, he'd sent the boy to the store. Thus, _he_ was to blame for sending the boy to his death. He should have known better than to send his son outside during the height of a deadly conflict with a rival gang. _Jah knows._

__ A commotion at the funeral home's entrance drove his focus to shift in the direction. The gathering moved in a disorderly manner, raising his concern. Deciding to investigate the matter, he started for the entrance, but paused when armed Southside gunmen burst through the door.

"Oh shit," he whispered.

Desmond and a few Faucet Lane hoods opened fire into the crowd of mourners, causing total pandemonium.

Men, women, and children ran for their lives, knocking over Tekki's son's casket during the haste to get away.

Using a bench for cover, Tekki jumped when his son's body fell near him. The circumstances caused him to shudder, but he kept calm. Pulling his son's body close, he held the boy.

"Faucet!" repeatedly shouted the Southside men as they unmercifully fired into the crowd.

The shooting went on for close to ten-minute before the gunmen finally filed out.

Carefully placing his son on the floor, Tekki got up to survey the chaotic scene.

Survivors of the massacre moved about in search of loved ones. Newly dead persons lied sprawled on the floor, while fortunate victims nursed bullet wounds.

Tekki trembled at the sight.

"Tekki," shouted someone.

Quickly spinning in the direction of where someone called him from, he noticed one of his soldiers approaching.

"Tekki, I think it's time to head back to Jamaica," said the soldier.

Tekki shook his head. _He's right._

__ The current mass-murder would bring more heat on him. The FEDS were already on to him, and he did not want them to get their hands on him. It was time to go to Jamaica and cool off.

Chapter 44

__ Natty Blacks sat out front his house reading the daily newspaper, engulfed in the cover story headlined _Deadly Jamaican Posse leaves 15 dead at Brooklyn wake._

"Fucking idiots," he voiced.

The article went on to explain the mounting murder rate throughout the city, crediting the Faucet Lane gang for many of these violent acts. Labeled the most notorious Jamaican drug-gang to _ever_ emerge in the city, a high alert was put out for the capture of ruthless thugs apart of the cabal.

Natty Blacks knew it was only a matter of time before the Faucet Lane gang was taken down by proper authorities. He shunned the gang's actions of treating New York like the streets of Kingston, which would eventually attribute to their demise. Though he disliked the gang, he wished they moved more militant.

He had a clear shot on Roger the night inside Afrika House, but refrained from firing on the boy, figuring the Back-To gang would handle the youth, a blunder on his part. The night in question, Tekki, a business associate, whispered to him that he was going to kill Roger outside the club. Allowing the man the opportune to get at the boy, he cursed himself when Tekki failed at eliminating Roger. _I should have just done it myself._

__ He wanted both Roger and Desmond dead, and would do everything possible to accomplish the goal.

Giving up on Jamaica's disloyal political system, he befriended Errol, who he acknowledged as Tel Aviv's top man. He admired the boy's thinking abilities, focused mannerisms, boss like mentality. Their union ran smoothly as they made bulks of money together. He felt bad knowing he killed the boy's father, but, just as himself, Errol never brought up the subject. Unifying Parade Gardens in Brooklyn was the objective only detested by Roger and Desmond, who they agreed to rid the world of when the opportunity presented itself.

Living in America proved that _so called_ political rivals can co-exist without conflict or tension, that Jamaica's political system was a sham. Southside and Tel Aviv men made powerful links in New York, just as other Kingston community's at odds back home. Abundant opportunities brought everyone together, it being the common cause for every link.

Folding his newspaper, he got up and went inside.

Chapter 45

Lucky boarded a plane headed for Jamaica, disappointed. Returning to Southside's volatile state was never a plan, especially after experiencing New York's luxuries. Having to head back home was a severe blow, one he had no choice but to cope with. Sticking around and taking a chance with being captured by the Feds was out of the question. _Not me._

He would much rather deal with the crime ridden streets of Southside, at least he would be safe from the FEDS.

He warned Roger of the dangers with staying in New York, even giving the boy a few links for people he could stay with out in California until things cooled off. Unreceptive, Roger made mention that Lucky was overreacting and that he was not leaving New York.

Explaining the same dangers to Desmond, the boy acted as if he hadn't heard a word and requested money to purchase crack-cocaine. Shocked, he gave Desmond some cash and departed. _At least I warned them._

__ Finding his seat on the plane, Lucky was surprised to see who he would be sitting next to for the duration of the flight.

"What's happening, Errol?" he greeted.

Errol looked up from his seat and smiled.

Chapter 46

The blazing sun shined on Desmond's freshly baldhead. Wearing a short-set and sandals, he was dressed for the beautiful weather. Dark shades graced his face, sitting on the bridge of his nose. Standing across the street from Robby Buckets with a few Southies engaged in a heated debate about Jamaica's coming election, he penetrated the drag with cautious eyes.

He cared nothing about the debate his friends were having nor about who would win the election. Jamaica was a thing of the past, New York was now home. No matter how much he stressed this to friends, they ignored, preferring to stick to Laborite ethics while in America. _Fucking fools._

__ Catching sight of a familiar face walking his way, he tapped one of his friends, interrupting their conversation.

"Who's this again?" he asked. "She looks familiar."

"That's Cutie from the lane, bossy. Your neighbor," answered the man.

Desmond could not believe how much Cutie had blossomed into a goddess. Strutting his way in a model like stride, she wore vagina shorts that clung to her healthy figure, a tank-top revealing nipples of her ample breasts and a six packed stomach, her hair was cut low showing her beautiful features. _God Damn!_

__ When she got closer, he found it hard to keep his composure. His friends became quiet, looking her way with lust filled eyes.

"Cutie, you look good, man," he said. "What the fuck have you been eating?"

Cutie smiled, falling into Desmond's arm, giving him a tight hug.

"Damn, Dezzie, why do you look so slim?" she said, stepping back and giving Desmond a once over.

"America's stressing me out," Desmond joked.

"I've heard about the things you're keeping up with in America," said Cutie. "Your name is all over the place."

"Forget about that, what's up with you?"

"I'm chilling. I have a son now."

"For real? Who's your baby's father?"

Cutie frowned before answering.

"Tekki," she said hesitantly.

Desmond's heart felt as if it leaped in his chest. _What?_ His enemy had impregnated his friend from the lane?

"Damn," he whispered loud enough for Cutie to hear.

"Listen, Dezzie, I know about y'all conflict. I am no longer with him. He actually tried killing me the other day because I put Roger on point," Cutie explained.

"It's your life, Cutie. Don't worry about me and him. I will see you around."

Desmond walked off for his car, disappointed. He felt betrayed for some peculiar reason.

"Dezzie!" shouted Cutie, running behind him.

Desmond stopped and turned to face her.

"What's up?" he asked.

"Dezzie, why are you acting like that? I told you that we are through," argued Cutie, trying to convince Desmond she was completely through with Tekki.

"Cutie, it's your life. You do not have to explain yourself."

"But you're acting like you have an attitude."

"I'm okay, man. Look, I have to make a run."

"Hold on."

Cutie retrieved a pen and piece of paper from a tote bag. Writing her number down, she handed the paper to Desmond.

"Make sure you call me," she said, reaching over and kissing Desmond on the mouth.

Surprised, Desmond licked his lips tasting Cutie's bubblegum lipstick on his mouth.

"I'm going to call you," he assured.

_____

Roger kept an eye on Desmond from his apartment window, making sure no one tried sneaking up on his friend. He held a pistol prepared to shoot if anyone tried their luck. When Desmond made it in the building safe and sound, he went out to meet him in the hallway. Taking a seat in a staircase, he waited for his friend to make it upstairs.

"Roger!" shouted Desmond excitedly, glad to see his friend.

The two hadn't been hanging out much.

"What's happening?" Roger asked nonchalantly.

"Nothing much," said Desmond, taking a seat next to Roger. "Star, I just seen Cutie for the first time. Rude boy, she's bad."

"You're right about that."

"But, family, she went and had a baby for that pussy nigga, Tekki."

Roger looked Desmond's way with surprise.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," answered Desmond, disgusted.

"Anyway, you've been hearing about what's going on in Jamaica?"

"Yeah, but I don't care. We're in America now, we shouldn't be worried about what's going on in Jamaica," said Desmond, uninterested in talk about Jamaica.

"Star, that's our home, we can't forget about home. The youngsters are down there fighting for us. We cannot just turn our backs on them."

"Roger, you can do what you want to do, but I'm done with Jamaica."

"Dezzie, are you serious?"

Roger couldn't believe Desmond.

"Like cancer," said Desmond, giving Roger a serious look. "Anyway, I need some money."

Taking out a sheet of tobacco paper, he prepped to roll a joint.

"How much do you need?"

Roger looked on in disgust as Desmond took out a bag of weed and crack-cocaine, mixing the two and inserting the contents inside the tobacco.

"I need about ten thousand dollars," answered Desmond, rolling and licking the tobacco paper closed.

Readying to light up the joint, Roger interjected.

"Star, don't light up no crack in front of me. You know that I'm not into them things," voiced Roger.

"Star, you need to try some of this," smiled Desmond, holding the joint in the air.

"Stop dissing me, nigga!"

"I'm fucking with you, man. Stop acting like that."

Roger took out two large coils of money.

"Here's fifteen-grand," he said, handing Desmond the money. "Make this last you for the week."

Desmond anxiously grabbed the money. His face lit up while thinking of all the crack-cocaine he was going to buy with the money.

"I will see you later," he said, getting up and running down the stairs.

Roger shook his head in disappointment. He knew Desmond would spend the majority of money on drugs. His patience was running low with his dear friend. _Real low._

Heading inside, he couldn't wait to call his baby, Desire.

Chapter 47

Desire's bed was filled with teddy bears, Roger laughed at the girl's obvious infatuation with the stuffed animals. Sitting at the edge of the bed, he made a mental note to purchase some of the filled creatures, now that he knew she loved them so much. This was his first time in Desire's room and he was impressed with the tidiness of the atmosphere. _She's definitely a clean girl._

Awaiting Desire's return from the kitchen, the aroma of ackee-and-codfish floated through the air invading Roger's nostrils. Nostalgia covered his brain. The sweet scent took him back to when his mother would cook out in the yard while humming and singing Bob Marley and Alton Ellis tunes. In those days his mother's singing agitated his mental, but he wished he could turn back the hands of time. He missed those days.

Desire invited him over to spend some time with her while her family was away on vacation. Obliging, he rushed over without hesitation, glad to keep her company. He never felt a way about a girl like he did Desire. She was totally different from _any_ female he encountered in his years. He really looked forward to a future with her.

Desire entered the room handing Roger a steaming plate of food.

"Ackee and salt fish, dumplings and bananas," she smiled, taking a seat with her portion.

Roger quickly dug into the food.

"Damn, how do you like it?" laughed Desire. "You can take your time, there's a lot more left over."

"The food is great," Roger mumbled between bites. _She can cook._

__ Putting her food aside, she left the room returning a few minutes later with two glasses of carrot juice.

So engulfed in eating, Roger hadn't saw when Desire left the room to get the juice. He looked up in surprise when she handed him a filled glass.

"If you weren't so focused on eating, you would have seen when I left the room," she joked.

Knocking down the juice in one gulp, Roger lied back on Desire's bed.

"I'm tired," he said.

He'd come to Desire's straight from a night out on the town and hadn't slept in a couple of days.

"Well, get some sleep," said Desire, taking up Roger's plate and glass. "I'm going to start making lunch."

Roger smiled, dozing off. Reflecting on the Sunrise Movie Theater incident, that, oddly, brought them much closer together, he really would have been disappointed if he lost her attention. Desire was a great girl he needed in his life, the perfect woman, and he would do everything in his power to keep her around.

_____

Standing at the forefront of a group of Faucet Lane members outside the Illusion nightclub in Brooklyn, Desmond rocked to music blasting from inside the club, preferring to stay outside. Apart from his gang, a few others packed the sidewalk in front Illusion. Shaking a bottle of champagne, he popped the cork splashing a random person passing by.

"Faucet!" he shouted, drenching the stranger in champagne.

Visibly shaken up, the individual ran off.

Desmond loved the power he possessed over people. Everywhere he went, people stared his way in admiration. His gang's formidable footing in the city came with innumerable perks; people would do anything for him.

"Boss man, the cops," voiced a Faucet Lane member, pointing at a police squad car pulling to a stop near their gathering.

"Hey, guys, it's either you all go inside the club or move on," said an officer.

"We're not going anywhere!" barked Desmond in a drunken slur.

"Excuse me?" asked the cop, getting out the squad car.

"What the fuck do you mean excuse me?" asked Desmond, taking out a gun and firing into the officer's frame.

Shooting up the police car, he fled the scene.

Chapter 48

Making Charlotte Street his home base in Southside, Lucky felt more at ease on the relatively quiet drag. Foster Lane had become too much of a military like base where gunmen patrolled around the clock, driving Lucky away from its circumference. He did not want to get caught on the lane by rivals who attacked regularly.

Southside was in topsy-turvy. The Faucet Lane gang, which played as a vanguard for the community, also acted as an oppressive force, worse than its predecessors. Business establishments in the area suffered major losses because of the gang's unprejudiced extortion schemes, residents were forced to pay for protection from the protectors, children were compelled to stash and fire guns. There was no order, just disorientation.

Fearing the undisciplined mannerisms of the new aged gunmen, Lucky carried a gun at all times. Though respected as a senior member of Southside's ruling gang, he still trusted none of the new youths on the scene.

On the flight down, he and Errol spoke at length about the state of Parade Gardens and Central Kingston as a whole. They shared the same views pertaining to certain aspects with regards to uplifting the community. Unlike Southside, Tel Aviv ran under complete order, Errol would see things no other way. The boy catered to his people in every way possible, treating everyone equally. Lucky aspired to replicate Errol's model in Southside, but knew such a move would take extreme effort.

Experiencing life in America, Lucky' outlook drastically changed, politics was no longer enthusing. Settling differences with past Tel Aviv foes, he promoted peace in Parade Gardens. Past rivals were able to cross the borderline to visit him without repercussions from Faucet Lane hoods, just as long as he was present. Outside his presence, though, community rivals were attacked the same. His goal was to prevent such acts from occurring, but needed some time to set the system in place.

If his life was taken during the course of uniting Parade Gardens, he was willing to accept death.

Chapter 49

Desire crept in the bathroom while Roger was showering. Quietly disrobing, she giggled in a hushed tone as he hummed a Bob Marley tune on the other side of the shower curtain. Her juices were flowing, she wanted some sex. _It's been long enough._

__ Roger was different from the rest; he seemed to be in no hurry for sex. The entire time they were together, he'd yet to make any sexual advances, which, at times, drove her crazy. She wanted him inside her ever since the day they met, but was reluctant to reveal her feelings. _I would seem like a whore._

__ It's was time, though, she would get some of Roger whether he liked it or not.

Completely naked, Desire pulled open the shower curtain.

"Oh shit!" shouted Roger, startled. "You scared me, man."

Desire's nakedness brought on an instant rise to his member. Swallowing hard, he became, oddly, nervous.

"Can I come in?" asked Desire in a seductive tone.

Focused on Desire's ample breasts, Roger licked his lips.

"Of course," he answered.

Desire entered the shower with her back to Roger.

"Can you soap my back, please?" she asked, handing Roger a rag.

Quickly grabbing the rag, Roger applied soap to the cloth. Starting on Desire's back, his penis pulsated as she began to moan. Reaching her buttocks, he wiped extra slow.

Placing her hands on the shower's wall, Desire bent low enough for Roger to enter her.

Tossing the rag aside, Roger guided himself inside Desire. Holding her shapely hips, he forcibly penetrated her.

Desire screamed out in agony, looking back at Roger with an angry expression.

Roger paused to gaze at Desire with a guilty smile etched on his face, but then continued to penetrate her in a rough manner. This time, however, she challenged his humps, pushing back on him every time he slammed into her. Following every one of his powerful thrusts, she propelled backwards matching his aggression, adding extra emphasis by gyrating on his penis.

"Fuck me," slurred Desire, looking back at Roger.

Roger hated to be challenged. Desire's maneuvers proved she was competing against him. Ejecting his penis from her soaking wet vagina, he stepped out the shower.

"Get out the shower!" he commanded.

Complying, Desire got out the shower wearing a smirk. Roger's actions only proved she won the first round of their sexual bout.

"Sit on the sink!" signaled Roger.

Getting up on the bathroom sink, Desire spread her legs wide. As Roger held her waist for balance, she held his back for support. He entered her with force, going real deep. Letting out a wailing scream, she felt defeated, already. The way she was situated disallowed her the chance to compete. Submitting to his pounding, she scratched his back and bit into his shoulders as he rammed her vagina. Her lady fluids drenched his member.

"Yes, Roger! Yes!" she screamed out.

Elevating his rhythm, Roger humped hard until exploding inside Desire.

Desire held Roger tight as his man fluids splashed inside her.

"Yes, baby," she said.

Chapter 50

Holding a gun on a Mexican along Compton Avenue in Watts, Gun Gal pierced the scene in anticipation of the man's friends emerging. She wouldn't hesitate to fire if they did, she never hesitated. _Ever._

A product of Southside, an original member of the Faucet Lane gang, Gun Gal was a dominant force in Los Angeles's Jamaican community. Known as a no-nonsense woman, she played as rough as the boys, if not rougher. Initiated into the gang by Desmond, she quickly sprung to the outfit's top echelon after the boss realized she was as dangerous as the men. Like male counterparts, she killed the same, viciously. Her savagery forced her to have to leave Jamaica. Making it to America, she ended up in California, where she continued her spate of mayhem against foes of her gang.

"Does he have anything else?" Gun Gal asked a friend, searching the frightened Mexican.

"Nothing, boss," answered the friend.

"Let's go."

Gun Gal and her subordinate ran off, hopping inside a vehicle driven by the former.

"Search the bag to see what he has inside," said Gun Gal. "Those spics always has some sort of drugs."

The subordinate searched through a bag he took from the Mexican finding a kilo of cocaine.

"Bingo," he said.

"See what I told you. Those motherfuckers always walk with something," rejoiced Gun Gal

Robbing Mexican's was a vise she indulged in on a regular basis. Caring nothing of their dominance in L.A., she took them on the same. When the opportunity presented itself, she moved to the challenge, giving zero fucks about repercussions.

Reaching her South Central pad, she parked her car in an alley around the back of her house, where a few Southside men awaited her return.

"You got through," asked Sprat, a hefty Faucet Lane member.

"What do you think? You know I don't play with them Mexicans," responded Gun Gal.

"I know that's right, bossy."

Southside's dominance among Jamaican's in California was well noted throughout the state. Hundreds of residents from the community flocked to the state with hopes of a better life, Los Angeles in particular.

"I have some great news, Gun Gal," said Sprat, dancing around in joy.

"What's that?" asked Gun Gal.

"The Don is in town," sang Sprat.

"Where?"

"He's staying over on Pico with some of the soldiers."

News of Desmond's emergence brought a smile to Gun Gal's heart. She had not seen Desmond since leaving Jamaica and couldn't wait to reunite with him.

"So, what are you all waiting for, let's go and check the Don," she said.

_____

Positioned outside a restaurant on Pico Boulevard, Desmond spoke with a few Southies he hadn't seen in years.

"You're the Don, Dezzie," said Gotti, a wheelchair bound Southside resident.

Hearing such words from Gotti, a Southside gangster he looked up to as a youth, made him feel like he'd come a long way. When Gotti was running around Southside, he was only a little boy confined to his lane.

"Respect, elder," he saluted.

He missed New York coldness, but loved the California sun. The tropical weather reminded him of home. He could definitely get used to living in Los Angeles.

"Gotti," yelled someone from an approaching car, blasting one of Six Pants' latest anthems.

Gotti rocked in his wheelchair to the sounds coming from the car.

"Yes, Southie...," he dragged out.

"Don dada, Gotti," voiced Sprat. "Don dada, Dezzie."

"Sprat?" asked Desmond.

"Yes, I. In the flesh."

Stepping out the car, Sprat went over to Desmond giving him a pound and hug.

"Long time, my nigga," smiled Desmond.

"You haven't seen anything yet, Gun Gal," Sprat called to his friend in the car.

Gun Gal got out the car.

"Oh shit," voiced Desmond. "My, g."

Rushing over to Gun Gal, he gave her a huge hug.

"Long time," he said.

"Yea, man, long time," said Gun Gal, giving Desmond the once over. "You lost a lot of weight."

"I think it's the crack, my friend. It's fucking me up."

Desmond never kept his addiction a secret. Ever since being introduced to crack-cocaine in Brooklyn, he spoke freely of his habit.

"Dezzie, you have to stop hitting the pipe. Those things are not good," complained Gun Gal.

"I'm trying, man, but it's hard for me to stop. At times I can't even sleep without it. I'm addicted."

Shaking his head in disgust, he was not even twenty yet but addicted to drugs.

"Well, I'm going to help you get off," vouched Gun Gal.

"I respect that, my friend."

Chapter 51

Sitting outside on Newkirk Avenue, Roger observed as his workers ran in and out of buildings serving customers. Rocking his head to music playing from a car parked on the block, he smiled at children enjoying the last few days of summer before back to school.

Newkirk Avenue's status quo was in full affect.

An arcane black car passed by catching Roger's attention. At first he thought nothing of the vehicle, but then it circled again. This time, however, he noticed three white men inside, one taking pictures of him. _Oh shit._

__ Rushing to his building, he wondered if the men were the FEDS. _I hope not._

__ Desmond's foolhardy conduct had brought tremendous heat to the gang, his countless unnecessary acts of violence. The police killing only made matters worse. Faucet Lane was the most talked about Jamaican faction in New York.

Desmond's departure was a blessing in disguise. Roger was growing tired of his friend's conduct. Going against the order they initially set, Desmond chose to play the frontline, doing things his own way. Thus, Roger decided to do things the same.

Inside his apartment, he called Jamaica.

"Mr Itchy, Faucet for life!" he yelled into the phone.

"Faucet for life!" retorted Itchy.

"Star, I'm hot out here in New York. Dezzie's heating me up. The FEDS is watching me now."

"Boss man, I'm hearing a lot about Dezzie, and to tell you the truth, I'm not feeling him. He's not checking for the sufferers down here, boss."

"That's just how it goes sometimes. Niggas come to America and forget about the people back home. Anyway, what's going on down there?"

"Boss, the place is on fire. We're fighting Tel Aviv hard."

"I'm hearing that Errol is down there?"

"Yeah, man. That pussy is down here. He doesn't really stay in the neighborhood, though. He stays uptown where he believes he's safe."

"What's good with Lucky?"

Roger hadn't heard from Lucky since he left New York.

"Oh shit! I forgot to tell you. That pussy crossed over. He's flexing with Errol now, and he's linking with Tony Smith and Michael Stewarts to take control of the place."

"Get the fuck out of here?!"

"Straight facts, boss."

Itchy' information caught Roger off-guard, he had to speak with Lucky, as soon as possible.

"What do you want for me to do with him?" asked Itchy.

"I'm going to get back to you on that. I'm going to link you a little later on."

"Yes, boss. One order."

"One order."

Hanging up the phone, Roger began to pack his belongings. He had some family in the Bronx and decided to head there.

Chapter 52

"Junglist!" shouted a man slamming a domino on a table.

"Shower!" retorted Bullet, also slamming a domino on the table staring at the other man.

The man jumped to his feet moving for Bullet.

"Star, y'all need to chill out, for real," said Micey, a very short man and friend of Bullet.

"Your Laborite friend needs to chill out. This is a Jungle corner, not Grant Avenue where his Tivoli' friends are!" roared the man.

A few men walked on the scene eyeing Bullet.

Feeling tension in the air, Bullet got out his seat and began to back away.

"Micey, talk to your friends," he warned, turning and walking away on White Plains Road.

Going to see Micey was a blunder on his part. His friend had not warned that the area was filled with PNP men from Concrete Jungle, a few he recognized from seeing in Jamaica. Fresh in New York, he had no idea the Jamaican community was, also, territorial in the states. Micey was out of pocket for leaving him out on certain details about the area. He never really trusted Micey, anyhow, and should have known better than to meet up with him on 214th Street.

At 216th, he realized he was being trailed by two men. Stealing a quick glimpse, he noticed Micey was one of the men.

"Bullet!" called Micey.

Sensing danger, Bullet took off across White Plains Road under the train tracks, dodging traffic. Gunshots rang out to his rear, bullets whistled by his running figure. _Shit._

__ Pedestrians scattered about as bullets flew about colliding with surrounding objects.

Stooping low, Bullet ran until getting on the opposite side of the busy road. Finding refuge in someone's backyard, he stopped to catch his breath.

"Fuck," he managed to mention in between labored breathing.

All he could think of was what he was going to do to Micey when he caught up to him. He and the man were friends from Jamaica, the latter originating from neighboring Denham Town. He couldn't believe the man sided with men from 'Jungle to go against him.

Staying in the backyard for a couple hours, he then departed headed for home on 227th Street.

_____

Natty Blacks was in complete shock. Parking his car on 227th Street in the Bronx, he watched as Super Stud affiliates joked and laughed with Roger, a prominent enemy of the gang. Getting out the car, he walked up on the men.

"What's happening?" he asked them, motioning toward Roger.

Roger smiled at Natty Blacks before stepping to the side to speak with a female.

"Royal, let me talk to you," said Natty Blacks, signaling for one of his men to step away from the rest.

"What's happening, boss?" asked Royal.

"Rude boy, why is Roger on the base?"

"Bossy, I'm sorry, man, but Roger is too strong out here. He has up here and down in Southside on lock. I still have family down in South and I don't want him sending people to kill my family."

Royal looked from Natty Blacks to Roger in a nervous manner.

Natty Blacks understood where Royal was coming from. It was a known practice of Dons abroad to have families of unruly persons wiped out in Jamaica.

"I'm going to have a talk with him," said Natty Blacks, walking off on Royal.

Roger revealed a gun on his waist as Natty Blacks approached.

Natty Blacks put his hands in the air.

"I just want to talk. No guns," he said.

Roger put his shirt back over his weapon and went over to speak with the old Don.

"What's up?" he asked.

"Star, you have heart to be on my corner out here."

"I can go anywhere I want to go."

Natty Blacks could tell Roger was not intimidated by his presence.

"Roger, I've known you from you were a child. What's going on? Why are you acting like you don't have respect for the Don?" he asked.

"Because, I don't have respect for the Don. Respect my regime and everything will be okay."

"Star, we are all Southies, we shouldn't be fighting each other. Leave that to guys from Jungle, Dunkirk, Rockfort. Southside needs to unite."

"I understand what you're saying, but Faucet Lane is the new order. Everybody is saying Faucet' now. I can call down to Fleet Street right now and make the Renkers kill shit, because they respect the order. And if a guy doesn't respect the order, they have to go."

"So because I am a Super Stud we can't flex together?"

Roger laughed out.

"I guess you don't understand. I can call down to High Holborn Street right now and make a Super Stud kill shit. The order is set in stone. It doesn't matter if you're a Super Stud, Renkers, Skull, or even Tel Aviv. If you go against the order, you're dead."

Natty Blacks understood, it was no arguing Roger's point. He thought about ending the boy's life right then and there, but knew his own life would be in danger if he pulled such a stunt. Royal and the rest of Super Studs might flip on him for Roger. As he spoke with the boy, he could see them looking his way. He shook his head in disappointment.

"Yeah, man, Roger. Just hold up your head," he said, walking off to his car.

Chapter 53

"Rude boy, who do you know on the lane?" Itchy asked an unfamiliar man walking on Foster.'

"I don't know anyone on the lane. I'm just passing through to reach Rum Lane," answered the man.

Itchy was skeptical of the man. Night time had fallen on the skies; during these times was when enemies tried penetrating the area, he needed to know the man's reason for being in Southside.

"Where do you come from?" he asked.

A few boys materialized from yards along the lane walking over to the duo.

"To...Top Road," stuttered the man, staring in horror at the accumulating group.

"Top Road?" interjected Bulla now present. "What is a Dunkirk nigga doing down here during war time?"

"Star, I'm not into politics. I'm a Rasta who just lives in Dunkirk. I came down here to check an empress, nothing more. I'm begging you all to give me a pass."

Itchy smiled as the man spoke, he had no right to be in Southside.

"Burst his head," he ordered.

Bulla and two boys grabbed the man, who struggled to break loose of their grasp.

"Murder! Murder!" shouted the man as he was roughly led inside a yard.

Inside the yard, the man was forced to sit down. Tied to a chair, the Faucet Lane gang surrounded him.

"Star, stop the fucking crying! Go out like a man!" voiced Itchy, positioned in front the man.

"Please, man. I am not a politician, I am a Rasta!" cried the man.

"You're from Dunkirk, so you're PNP. You have no rights to be in Southside."

Itchy had no sympathy for tears. The amount of violence he witnessed in life had turned his heart cold.

"Bulla, done him," he said.

Taking out a Rambo type knife, Bulla giggled.

"What are you doing in Southside, pussy?!" he asked the intruder.

"Please, don't kill me!"

Bulla slashed the man's face.

The man screamed out as blood leaked from a fresh wound on his face.

"Shut the fuck up, pussy! You and your friends would have done the same thing to me if y'all caught me on Top Road," said Bulla, grabbing hold of the man's head.

Driving the knife deep into the man's neck, he yanked the blade cutting through the man's jugular vein. He then stepped back and watched the man's life force leak from his body.

Itchy and everyone else stood off to the side smiling in approval of Bulla's work.

"Let me talk to you, Bulla."

Itchy moved off to the side to speak with his counterpart.

"What's up?" asked Bulla.

"Let the soldiers throw the body in Tel Aviv, and prepare to go for Lucky."

"Say no more."

_____

Meeting up with Michael Stewarts at Gloria's eatery in Port Royal, Lucky was glad to finally get the chance to express himself to the politician.

"Michael, you haven't been _real_ with the people, so it's going to be hard for them to accept you, again," said Lucky.

"I understand, but that is what I have you for," smiled Michael Stewarts. "The youths in the community looks up to you as the boss man, so it would be safe to say that you have influence over many. I need for you to be there with me as I get to fixing up Southside."

"Check it, I'm going to roll with you, but you have to come up off some money for the youths."

"Election time is coming up, so lots of money will be given out for the campaign. The youths will eat, along with yourself, but what are we going to do about the Faucet Lane problem?"

"Don't worry about them, I have everything under control," he lied.

Lucky really had no answer for Michael Stewarts' question. Though the Faucet Lane youths respected him as a superior, their true boss was Roger, who'd taken over the entire gang from Desmond. Nevertheless, he would do whatever possible to fix things in Southside.

Chapter 54

The Tel Aviv community came out to greet their boss, Errol. Rosemary Lane was filled with residents and supporters of the area. It seemed like a parade converged on Rosemary.' Men, women, and children were on the scene hoping to get a word in with the Don.

Top Rankin and a few men formed a circle around Errol to protect him from the large mass that usually crowded the Don when he came to the area.

Wearing a full black suit, an orange bandanna covered Errol's head signifying his dedication to the People's National Party. Acknowledging community residents with handshakes and hugs, he and his entourage eventually moved off into a yard where Tony Smith awaited.

"What's happening, Mr. Smith?" started Top Rankin. "Those South boys killed my little cousin, raped her and burned her body. In the past two weeks, ten people have died in Tel Aviv. The police are fucking with us as if we are the only one's firing shots. Talk to me M.P. What are we to do?"

Looking around at the mean faced men, Tony Smith gave Errol a questioning gaze.

"Answer, Mr. Smith," said Errol, ignoring the politician's uneasiness.

"Well, I am familiar with the ongoing dispute between Tel Aviv and Southside. I've spoken, personally, with Dignity and his guys, and told them to ease up on you guys. Other than that, there is really nothing I can do," started Tony Smith. "However, I can guarantee, if we win the coming election, there will be a lot of changes, the tables will be turned. So I need for you all to continue to keep the JLP under manners."

"So what are we to do, just keep on killing the Southies?" asked Top Rankin in a sarcastic tone.

"I want for you to do what you have to do."

"Mr. Smith," interjected Errol. "I left Jamaica and went to America and became rich. I went up there and didn't forget my people. I was born on Matthews Lane, but was raised in Tel Aviv. My father, your old friend, was once in control of around here. I love my place, and if worse comes to worse, I will spend my last dime for my community.

Star, you haven't done what you said you were going to do. You want us to kill people for you, but you're not doing anything for us. Yes, you've done things for me, but what about my people?"

Errol paused to point at everyone present.

"When Mark died, you turned your back on us," he continued. "You stopped answering my calls, you stopped coming around. It wasn't until I contacted you from America and showed you certain things when you started to come back around here.

No, I'm not holding that against you, because we have spoken about everything and I've already given you my word. Right now, I've made a link with Lucky from South. The two of us are working on stopping the war that's going on, because we all are actually from the same community and it really doesn't make any sense for us to be fighting. We do not want what happened in 1980 to reoccur. Too many youths are dying. You're the M.P. for the place, Lucky and the South M.P. are working together, it's time we set up a peace meeting."

"Errol, I am glad to know that this dispute can possibly be resolved. I will do all that I can in the matter, just let me know. I am here for the Tel Aviv community."

"I respect that," said Errol.

Chapter 55

Lying low in the passenger seat of a car driven by Sprat, Desmond watched a car ahead on Crenshaw Boulevard.

"Keep up with them," he said.

Sitting directly behind Desmond, Gun Gal looked over his shoulders at the car up ahead.

"The boy is bright to want to disrespect my Laborite friends and then come to L.A. to hang out with Southies," said Desmond.

His sweaty palms gripped a .44 Bulldog magnum, his heart raced in anticipation of the next kill. He'd yet to bless California with a murder, and was looking forward to it.

Catching sight of the vehicle's passengers leaving an alley where Southside men hung out, they trailed the car. Word was sent from New York for the immediate execution of one of the men inside the vehicle.

A red light caught both cars at an intersecting street.

"Gun Gal, come," said Desmond, getting out the car and jogging for the vehicle up ahead.

Gun Gal got out the car holding a Tec 9. Desmond went for the intended target on the passenger side, so she went for the driver.

Getting up close on the car, Desmond looked in on the target before opening fire, riddling the vehicle and the man inside.

Gun Gal held the powerful weapon steady as she fired on the driver, peppering him with slugs, emptying the clip.

Sprat pulled up alongside the riddled car.

"Get in," he said.

When the two got in, he raced off.

_____

"Bullet, I just got the call. I told you I was going to take care of that," said Roger.

Puffing on a joint, he sat reclined in a sofa enjoying the comfort of his new Yonkers pad.

"Star, I heard about it, man. That nigga Micey got what he deserved," said Bullet, sprawled on a sofa across from Roger.

"Yeah, man. You can't trust certain niggas, they will set you up."

"Anyway, what's going on in Southside? I'm hearing the gang is down there killing everything."

"Star, it looks like my friend Lucky has been flexing with Tel Aviv. He's hanging with Errol now."

"You're lying?"

"I swear to God. He has linked up with Michael Stewarts, also, to take Southside. He even has people siding with him from across New Road."

"Kill him. Don't waste any time."

"I've already sent the order to out his light."

Roger felt bad to have to put a hit out on Lucky, but the man had violated the order of things by linking with enemies of the community. After Itchy' caveat, he did some independent research and learned Lucky was indeed making rounds with Errol. Thus, he had no choice but to have him killed.

"Just make sure they kill him fast," warned Bullet. "Because that's how neighborhoods cross over sometimes, a man with money goes into the area and buys out the people. Lucky has to go _now_."

"He'll be dead very soon," agreed Roger.

"Other than that, what do you have planned for the election?"

"I am supporting an individual named Trevor Dukes as M.P. for South. I've reasoned with him and I like his style. Southside has to vote for him."

"I know Trevor. He's from Denham Town."

"Oh, yeah? I just hope he does good for Southside.

Anyway, what would you like to do with the Junglist's on 214th?"

Roger didn't like the way the 'Jungle men disrespected his cousin. Micey'd been taken out, now it was time for the rest to go.

"You already know. Those niggas have to die."

Chapter 56

Patrick motioned for two boys to get inside his car outside Robby Buckets.

Clarks and Mark, two migrants from Pink Lane, hopped in Patrick's car. New to America, they wanted to make a name for themselves as they'd done back in Jamaica.

"What's going on?" Patrick asked the boys.

"Boss man," started Mark. "We can't find Roger anywhere. We've been on Newkirk,' we've been here, everyone says he's no longer in the borough."

"It's true, boss man," said Clarks. "We can't find Roger anywhere."

Patrick was aware of Desmond's departure to Los Angeles, but his protégé wasn't the primary focus. He needed to get to Roger, who had elevated to the undisputed Don of the Faucet Lane gang.

Roger's status of a gangster surpassed every Jamaican of repute in America. The Faucet Lane gang had grown to enormous numbers with Roger at the helm of the organization.

Losing his grip on Desmond, Patrick was forced to send for Pink Lane gangsters, starting with Clarks and Mark. The two were just kids when he left Jamaica, but had made quite a name for themselves during the years. Their exploits resonated to the Americas, driving him to send for them, beating other Dons to the punch. Once situating the boys in New York, he sent them out to kill Roger.

"Roger's out there somewhere. Get to him and kill him," he said to the boys.

Clarks and Mark nodded their heads in approval.

Chapter 57

Trevor Dukes was in disgust with the state of Southside. _Yuck._

__ The compact community seemed on the verge of collapsing, destroying with it the many inhabitants confined to the inhumane environment.

Walking from Gold Street to across New Road and back again, he observed the same conditions throughout the entire community. _God help these people._

__ Bullet pocked walls emblazoned with gang insignia stained the neighborhood. Zinc fenced domains dominated the area. Majority streets were filled with garbage. Streams of water mixed with defecation ran through the streets where children played.

As a youth, Trevor Dukes remembered Parade Gardens as a resplendent area known for its pretty light complexioned prostitutes and street dances, many he attended with friends from out west. _Damn, man._

__ Looking over at a car trailing him, he thought of the young men inside, who were given specific orders to protect him. He loathed their presence. He and the people of Southside had a rapport, their company was unnecessary.

An ancillary of Michael Stewarts, he was a prominent figure within the JLP fold. Serving as council for social reform, he held the key position to heart. Kingston residents loved him for his caring ways. While most politicians lied to the people, he delivered the goods, at times coming out his own pocket to assure a promised deed. His word meant everything, and unlike other politicians, he stuck to his.

Born and raised in Denham Town, he was a child of the ghetto. Growing up amongst the downcast on the many poverty-stricken roads and lanes, he experienced hardship firsthand. He attended schools with persons who would grow to be notable gunmen. Renowned gunmen such as Zackie The High Priest, Bad Word, Claude Massop, and Byah Mitchell were all residents of Denham Town before moving on to neighboring Tivoli Gardens. He witnessed these men transform into notorious warlords when politicians came around in need of their assistance.

Zackie The High Priest and his 21 Strong gang fought against Big Uzi and his Spangler gang for politicians, the two turning west Kingston's streets into a war zone, all in the name of politics.

Trevor Dukes watched form his yard as the violence exploded outside his gate. While friends chose to indulge in the political fight marring the city, though, he focused on the bigger picture. He chose to stick with academics in pursuit of emulating politicians who controlled the Kingston gangsters.

The politicians were the real bad men.

Though the gangs turned political, Trevor Dukes fathomed, to an extent, why persons participated in battle.

Families in Kingston's ghettoes suffered from lack of financial aid. Jobs paid scraps, never enough to provide necessities. Young men from such homes disliked hearing hunger pain cries of mothers and siblings, and took it to the streets. In the streets, politicians offered scraps and promises of future dividends if particular areas were cleared of opposing forces. The little money received was enough to keep families from crying, so young males played battlefields with pride.

Once through with school, Trevor Dukes entered the world of politics. Moving among JLP's elite circle, he made quite a name for himself. He had a perfect resume. Hooking up with Michael Stewarts, he went to bat in Central Kingston, standing at his superior's side throughout his claim for the Southside section of Parade Gardens.

While Michael Stewarts preached and made promises, though, Trevor Dukes delivered the goods in poor communities. His agenda differed from his boss's. He really wanted to see areas like Southside well off, unlike Michael Stewarts.

Prior to becoming political, he figured out the politics that controlled Jamaica was a sham, in no way beneficial to the poor. Politicians used and abused the poor, setting them upon one another in dual form. The poor's only purpose in the tunnel-vision they were stuck in was to maim each other and keep opposing parties out of their neighborhoods. In return, politicians got the police to lay off the many gangs who occupied these communities. It was never really in the interest of politicians to change things.

While Michael Stewarts limited himself to _just_ High Holborn Street, Trevor Dukes went everywhere in Southside tending to sufferers grievances. What he had he gave willingly, expecting nothing in return. For this, the people loved him. Michael Stewarts and Natty Blacks tried stopping him from being so generous, but he refused.

He never liked the so called Southside Don, Natty Blacks, and had silently vowed to join forces with whoever rose up to oust him. The day came when he met the Faucet Lane Don, Roger, during a trip to New York City. Through an associate they met and spoke at length about future endeavors. He admired the boy's mannerisms and drive. Together they formed a pact, vowing to rebuild Southside into a prosperous community.

He got what he needed from the boy, an adamant force to help solve the problem that plagued Southside. He was guaranteed a seat in parliament with the help of Roger, and now that he got the backing, he was on a strenuous campaign mission.

Chapter 58

Desmond's body convulsed next to Gun Gal's waking her out of a deep sleep.

"Dezzie!" she screamed, jumping over him and violently shaking his body.

Foaming from the mouth, Desmond's eyes rolled back in his head as his lifetime flashed before his eyes. Everything came back to him in an instant flash. From the day he left Jubilee hospital in west Kingston to when he made it home to Southside.

His uncle, Tom, was there to greet him, taking him from his mother.

Flash.

His mind flashed to his first day of attending primary school. On the particular day he met Roger and Errol. The two sat beside him in class, joking about the teacher's garments until school was out.

Flash.

The day he and Roger ran into Errol downtown came to memory. They waited for Errol to come out a shop on East Queen Street and fired multiple rounds at him once he exited. Errol engaged them in a shootout before disappearing into Tel Aviv.

Flash.

A conversation with Roger came to mind, in which his friend was begging him to leave drugs alone and stay clear of the limelight.

"There's no need to be on the front line, Dezzie. We've already paved the way. Just fall back," Roger had said.

But, as usual, he did not listen to Roger. He smoked half of an eight ball right after the conversation and went on a killing spree.

Flash.

Feeling everything closing in on him, feeling death approaching, Desmond did something he never did before.

He prayed.

He prayed for God to forgive him for his sins. He prayed for God to forgive him for all the unwarranted murders; robberies; assaults; attempted murders he committed. He prayed for a next chance at life; he promised God he would put down the gun. He prayed for his mother; Roger; his friends; the youths he led astray back in Jamaica, in Brooklyn. He prayed for the mothers, fathers, and families he caused grief. He prayed for the souls he untimely laid to rest. He prayed and prayed. And then, finally, he began to come to.

His blurry vision gradually cleared up. A sobbing Gun Gal sat on top of him shaking his body. The hurt in her eyes showed how much she cared for him.

"Alright, Gun Gal, I'm here," he said in a slur.

Gun Gal stopped shaking Desmond and stared at him, relieved. Unable to control her emotions, she began to pound on his chest with closed fists while sobbing. She thought she lost him. She was almost certain the drugs were the reason for Desmond's convulsion and was upset he did not listen to her about not taking drugs.

"Cool, baby," said Desmond, finding the strength to grab Gun Gal's hands.

"I told you to leave the crack alone, now look! You nearly died on me!" Gun Gal screamed out, while struggling to break free of Desmond's grip.

"I'm done with it, Gun Gal. Believe me, I'm through," said Desmond, staring deep into Gun Gal's eyes. "Please, believe me, I'm though."

Chapter 59

Roger and Desire rolled around with each other in his living room, playing as if they were kids.

"You can't win me," voiced Roger.

"Oh, yea?"

Pinning Roger to the floor, Desire got on top of him holding his arms so he could not move.

"What are you going to do now?" she asked, laughing as Roger struggled to break free of her grip.

Roger was surprised with how strong Desire was, he could not move his arms.

"You got it, girl," he said.

"Say you got it, Desire."

Roger tried breaking free again. He did not want to submit to Desire but could not get loose.

"Alright, you got it, Desiree," he finally submitted.

Desire let him loose and got up.

"Don't try anything funny," she said, turning to walk for the kitchen.

Roger quickly grabbed Desire in a bear hug, lifting her up.

"You coward!" she screamed, kicking her legs.

Roger spun Desire around in a circular motion.

"I'm not going to put you down until you calm down," he said.

"Alright," she said, bringing her sporadic kicks to a halt.

Prudently, Roger let her loose, running back a few feet when she was down.

Desire laughed at Roger.

"Punk," she said.

Roger went over and sat on his couch. Taking out a rolled-up marijuana stick, he lit the joint and took a long pull. Releasing a cloud of smoke, he coughed in bouts from the potency of the herb. Holding the joint in the air, he shook his head at the stick like figure. His eyes watered, tears ran down his cheeks. Wiping his eyes, he took another deep pull. Exhaling the smoke, he humored at how good the weed was.

"Put out that garbage!" barked Desire, sitting next to Roger.

She hated the scent of weed.

Roger put out the joint and placed the remaining contents in a nearby ashtray.

"Roger, I believe we need to have a serious talk," said Desire, turning to face Roger.

"What's happening?"

"Roger, you need to start investing all that money you are making into something legitimate. I don't see you buying anything with your money but fancy cars, cloths and jewelry. You need to start putting forth your money into businesses."

"What are you talking about?"

Roger believed his money was well invested and did not understand where Desire was coming from.

"Roger, look at this place. You have Panasonic televisions that hasn't even hit the market yet; expensive furniture that looks out of place in this small apartment; a fleet of cars, some you don't even drive. What I'm talking about is that you invest your money into maybe a store-front, beauty parlor, or franchise."

Marijuana usually made Roger face the harsh realities of life. Desire's spill came at the perfect time, right when he was high from a joint. Her proposal could not have come at a better time. Opening a legit business would definitely be in his best interest.

"So what are we going to do about this?" he asked.

"Well, I know about a few store-fronts. The only problem is that they all need renovating. Other than that, they are in perfect locations, meaning people regularly frequent the areas where these stores are located, and that usually makes business good. You need a store where the people are."

"So who would I have to pay for the stores?"

"Do you even want to know how much money you're going to have to spend?"

"It doesn't matter. Money is around by the truck load."

"Well, just to let you know, one of these stores could run you up to fifteen hundred a month for rent."

"Rent?"

Roger gave Desire a sarcastic look.

"We don't indulge in renting things. We buy things and throw them away when we're through. So, if the transaction is going to involve rent, I'm good, I don't want to deal with that."

Desire was speechless. She knew Roger didn't mean to, but he made her feel real small. _He does have that much money._

"Okay, Roger, I'm going to check into what I have to check into and get back to you."

"Okay."

Chapter 60

Charlotte Street residents were out in full swing enjoying the weather, glad to be on the road after days of rain. Dominoes tables set up at pathways of yards were occupied by rambunctious men. Children played dandy-shandy in the street's center, along with soccer and jump rope. Everyone enjoyed the freedom the street offered. Charlotte Street declared independence from the Faucet Lane regime, and, with the help of Lucky, the street's savior, everything remained relatively calm.

Lucky saw to it that no one messed with Charlotte Street, especially Foster Lane hoods. He and Michael Stewarts were on a strenuous campaign in Southside trying to gain votes. He felt determined to see to it that the politician kept his word this time around, and voiced this to the people. Some sided with him, but most stuck with Trevor Dukes and the Faucet Lane regime. Disappointed, he was confident the people would eventually fathom his vision for Southside. Securing Charlotte Street and a few others across New Road, his eyes were set on the rest of Southside.

No one paid attention to a motorbike riding on the street until it was too late. One man rode the bike while another, sitting about faced, held a machine gun. Within an instance, the gunman opened fire on the Charlotte Street people.

People scurried to and fro as the gunmen fired on them. Bullets pierced frames of man, woman, and children. Shrieking screams resonated along the street as people ran for their lives, and to protect loved ones.

More gunmen converged on the scene meeting persons in high pursuit of escape. Cutting down everyone within visible reach, gunmen kicked open yard gates invading premises.' Slaughtering entire families, the ruthless hoods showed no mercy when killing. No one was spared.

The massacre on Charlotte Street ended only when the gunmen were satisfied everyone on the drag was dead. They then moved out, leaving behind a wake of destruction.

_____

Running to his television following a news reporter's mention of ' _tragedy in Southside,'_ Lucky' heart jolted when seeing the gruesome scene on Charlotte Street. Letting out an unconscious shriek, he pulled at his hair and fell to his knees.

"Jah-Jah, no," he said to no one.

News footage showed JCF and JDF personal standing guard over dead bodies on Charlotte Street. Fortunate victims were taken out of yards on gurneys and placed in ambulant trucks.

"It has been told to me this massacre is a reprisal for this street's stance against a governing JLP gang in this community," said a news reporter.

In a rage, Lucky jumped to his feet and tossed the television across the room where it crashed into a wall shattering into pieces. Falling back to his knees, he placed his face in his hands and sobbed. Charlotte Street's slaughter was his fault. Had he not went against Roger, no such thing would have happened.

Roger disowned him for linking with Errol, but he saw the move as a significant one for the betterment of Southside. Furthermore, he was an original Faucet Lane member actually from the lane and had been a member even before Roger, so there was no reason why he couldn't make decisions on his own. He was his own man.

A ringing telephone took him out of his stupor. He found it strange that someone was calling. The only person with access to the house's phone number was Michael Stewarts, who was out of town and had given him the house to stay in temporarily. While things heated up in Southside, he figured it best to stay out of reach, uptown.

Michael Stewarts was out of town and mentioned he would not be in touch for a couple days, so Lucky wondered why he was calling. _He probably heard what happened in Southside._

Moving to the phone, he answered.

"Hello."

"That's you, pussy?!" asked the caller.

Lucky' heart leaped. He automatically recognized the caller's voice. Nervously looking around, he walked to a window to see if anyone was outside.

"How did you get this number?" he asked, trying to hide his nervousness.

"Don't worry about that. How come you weren't in Southside when everybody was dying? You got away, pussy!"

"Suck your mother, pussy!"

"You'll soon be dead, man," said the caller, hanging up.

"Hello!" shouted Lucky. "Hello!"

Realizing the caller hung up, he placed the phone back in its cradle and began to pace the room. Thoughts of all sorts occupied his mind. He did not know what to do.

The phone rang interrupting his thoughts.

"Hey, pussy, come and get me! Since you found out the number, than you must can find out the address, pussy!" he roared into the phone once answering.

"Lucky, it's me, Michael. What are you talking about?"

"Oh shit, Michael, that's you? Jah knows, the Faucet Lane niggas just called here sending threats. I thought nobody else has this number?"

"They called there?" asked Michael Stewarts, surprised.

"Yeah, I just got off the phone with them."

Lucky' mind was racing. Everything seemed to be closing in on him. He never believed the day would come when he would be under the gun from his own people.

"Listen, Lucky, those guys wiped out the entire Charlotte Street. You have to start taking action against those two tyrants, Itchy and Bulla. This can mess up my win in coming weeks."

Reality settled in. Things were now coming to light. Obvious signs now bombarded Lucky. Michael Stewarts was never for the people, and never would be; all Michael Stewarts wanted to do was win the election to heighten his chances for some future higher position in government.

"You need to take action, pussy! I fucked up by fucking with you. Trust me, your time will soon come," he said.

"Lucky-"

Lucky hung up the phone. It was time to be the man he was. _Since Roger wants action, I'm going to give him action._

Chapter 61

Desmond felt comfortable in Ras Negus's presence. The elderly Rastafarian was somewhat of a savior, an essential figure who just so happened to come along during a drastic period in his life. As himself, the man had been down the same road, from politics to being involved in the element of criminality. Their lifestyles coincided in many ways. He felt a strong connection with the man.

Introduced to Ras Negus by Gun Gal, he and the man hung out regularly. The older man played somewhat of a father figure role in his life. He really respected the man. _Highly._

"Jah knows, Ras Negus, I'm really feeling your vibe. And to tell you the truth, I feel as if I'm ready to become a Rasta. I would like to learn more about H.I.S Majesty," said Desmond.

"Kings of Kings, Lords of Lords, conquering lion of the Tribe of Judah. Selassie I the First, God in the human flesh," preached Ras Negus. "I will teach you everything you need to know about the Emperor. Believe that."

Desmond shook his head, impressed by Ras Negus's words. He was supposed to be out killing a certain drug-lord, per Roger's orders, but chose to meet with Ras Negus instead. Roger would be upset, but he didn't care. He wanted his past behind himself, and was determined to achieve the feat. _Rasta is the new order._

Chapter 62

"Big belly man...I'm a big belly man, man...Get some belly, get some belly-ly," sang Roger, singing to an Admiral Bailey tune playing in his car.

Cruising on White Plains Road, he sang aloud while dancing in his seat.

"Big tune," he voiced.

Stopping at a restaurant on the way to his destination, he parked the car and continued to shake his head until the song ended. Reaching for a gun underneath his seat, he tried making out the faces of a few men standing outside the restaurant looking his way. He called the business place owner an hour before to let him know he would be stopping by. As many of the other Jamaican businesses in New York, he was extorting the restaurant's owner.

Placing the gun on his waist, he turned to exit the vehicle when a car pulled alongside his with two men inside, one waving a gun his way. _Oh shit!_

__ Retrieving his pistol, through his peripheral, he saw one of the men out front the restaurant coming his way, gun in hand. He fired at the man first, shattering the car's window.

The man clutched his chest and ran back toward the restaurant.

Shards of glass fell on Roger as shots rang out from behind crashing through the car's window and penetrating its metal frame. Two slugs shot through his upper back throwing him onto the passenger seat. Quickly spinning around on his wounded back, he aimed at one of the men in the car who was hanging out the window still firing into his car. Firing a single shot at the mark, the slug sent the man flying backwards into the car. He then continued to fire until the other car sped away.

He knew he was set up. _It had to be the restaurant owner responsible._

Struggling to sit in an upright position, he got in the driver's seat and raced off.

Tossing the gun on a vacant street, he drove himself to the hospital.

_____

"I'm going to die, Mark! He's going to kill me!"

Lying on the floor bleeding from two fresh bullet wounds, Mark wondered if he would survive. Waiting on the ambulance, he wished the restaurant owner would quit complaining.

"Please," he begged. "Get an ambulance for me."

"I don't know how y'all made him get away. I set up everything right for you all," cried the restaurant owner, ignoring Mark's pleas.

Mark was in no mood to hear about his errors. He could feel himself dying.

Figuring out Roger's whereabouts, he and friends hatched a plan to attack the boy on 227th Street, but abandoned the idea. It was far too risky to get to Roger on 227th, where many guys from Southside hung out. Instead, he went through someone that led him to the restaurant owner, who was being extorted by Roger and wanted him dead. He was to stand out front the business until Roger showed up for extortion fees and attack as soon as Clarks pulled up in the car. Everything went according to plan, but Roger, somehow, shot his way out the plot.

"Please, can you get an ambulance for me?" pled Mark, bleeding heavily.

"Fuck you, Mark! If I'm going to die, you should die, also," cried the restaurant owner.

Trying to keep calm, Mark accepted his fate. He prepared himself for death.

Chapter 63

Itchy used a young boy as a shield from a lone gunman on Foster Lane. Pushing the boy ahead of himself, the gunman opened fire on the youth, riddling the boy. Dashing down the lane, he dodged bullets by running in a zig zag manner until getting off the drag.

Loud explosions lit up the atmosphere. Faucet Lane hoods ran for their lives as the brazen gunman fired a semi-automatic weapon at them. One youth was cornered between two cars and shot multiple times. Another was shot dead trying to make it inside a yard. The gunman skillfully ran behind the fleeing figures cutting each down one by one, but his focus was clearly on Itchy, who made it onto Barry Street.

Itchy could see the gunman was on his tail. Continuing his zig zag maneuvers on Barry Street, he ran for Gold Street. He wished he had his gun to take on the intruder, but had left it inside thinking he would only be on the lane for a few seconds. As soon as he walked to a group on the lane, though, the lone gunman materialized aiming a gun his way.

Making it to Gold Street, he ran to the nearby police station. A few officers standing out front parted way to make room for him to get by.

"Hey, why are you running like that for?!" one officer shouted, looking from Itchy then to the gunmen who'd made it on to the street.

The officer's eyes shot open at the sight of the man's weapon.

"Hey, boy, put down the gun!" he barked, quickly drawing his service weapon.

The lone gunman stopped running and looked at the officers first, then at Itchy, who stopped running and was hiding near a wall by the station. _Pussy._

__ Anger over __ came him in a wave, driving him to raise his gun and run toward Itchy.

The officers opened fire on the gunman dismantling his figure. One officer then walked over to the man's body trying to make out what was left of the dead man's face.

"Isn't this Lucky?" he asked.

Chapter 64

"Please don't kill me, I'm begging you," cried a young girl.

"Hey, bitch, if you don't stop the noise, I'm going to shoot you," threatened Bulla through clenched teeth.

Pointing a gun at the female, he searched the deserted alley for any signs of movement. He and Itchy kidnapped the girl after a night out on the town in West Hollywood bringing her to the alley.

Migrating to America with Roger's help, Itchy and Bulla was sent to California to play as their boss's eyes and ears on the streets of Los Angeles.

Riding around Los Angeles, they trailed the girl for a few blocks before taking her at gun point.

"Take off your cloths," ordered Bulla.

Without protest, the girl stripped down to her panties and bra.

"Take off everything!" barked Itchy.

Getting completely naked, the frightened girl held her head down and whimpered.

"Lay down on the ground," commanded Bulla.

He wanted first dibs at the girl. His penis throbbed inside his pants as he watched the petite but shapely girl. Passing Itchy his gun, he got on his knees before the girl. Knowing how much his friend would disapprove of his next move, he looked back at Itchy and smiled.

"Nigga, you need to stop with that nastiness, man," voiced Itchy in disgust.

Ignoring his friend, Bulla spread the girl's legs and placed his face near her snatch. His mouth drooled in anticipation of putting his tongue on the girl's ripe vagina. Her low whimpers only heightened his appetite. Licking on her thighs, he worked his way to her pussy lips sucking on them.

The girl moaned in obvious pleasure, grabbing hold of Bulla's head and pulling him closer.

Shocked, Bulla pulled his head away and looked up at the girl. Seemingly in a trance, she continually licked her lips while looking at him. _Another one._

__ He termed his tongue loving after the martial arts fighting style, _kung fu_ , rechristening it _tongue fu._ He felt like he could conquer any female by way of oral sex.

Getting a taste of the girl's love hole, he went to her clit making circular motions on her organ.

"Aaaaggghhh!!!" screamed the girl, squirting inside Bulla's mouth.

Backing up, Bulla looked on as the girl's body convulsed uncontrollably. He then looked back and winked at Itchy.

Itchy sucked his teeth.

"Are you finished?" he asked.

"Yeah, man. You should eat some of this; it tastes good down there," joked Bulla.

"Hey, nigga, watch your mouth. Real gangsters don't play that."

After Itchy had his way with the girl, he shot her in the head killing her.

_____

"Like I said, the Emperor has taken control of me. No one else, you understand. He's the only one who rules," said Desmond.

Cutie sat across from Desmond inside a café on Melrose Boulevard in Los Angeles.

"So you really believe you are through with badness?" she asked.

She could not find it in herself to believe Desmond was completely through with involvement in the criminal element.

"Cutie, I was at a point in life where I was trying to be the toughest guy. But now I've come to the realization that there is no man tougher than Jah Jah. If I were to continue my trek of misery, it would be me going against the Emperor, and I refuse to do that. I've put down the gun for good."

"What about Roger and the Faucet Lane gang? What do they have to say about your conversion?"

"It doesn't matter what they have to say. The only thing that matters is that I'm an adamant follower of the Emperor."

"What about Roger?"

"I reached out to Roger telling him Selassie I sent for him, and he hung up the phone on me. So I don't know what's up with him. That's my brother still, though."

Cutie understood. She knew how much Desmond loved Roger, but there was nothing he could do to save his friend.

Roger was far in too deep.

"Just continue on, Dezzie. I'm here with you," Cutie said, meaning it.

She and her son moved out west to escape the crazy New York environs. Living in Brooklyn was almost like living in Southside, it was way too violent, so when Desmond called and invited her out west, she jumped at the offer.

They stayed in a Hollywood pad far away from Los Angeles's ghettoes.

"This has been on my mind for a while, but I never wanted to open any old wounds. How is Tekki doing, though?" asked Desmond.

"After you and your friends killed his family, he went back to Jamaica and turned crazy. One of my friends from west Kingston said they seen him in just underwear begging people for money," she answered without hesitation.

"May Selassie I bless his soul."

Cutie looked at Desmond, perplexed.

"Cutie, you have to move on in life after a while. Yes, Tekki tried killing me, and I've tried killing him, but that is the past. A man is supposed to love his brother. Me and Tekki were at war, but I still love him. You may not understand me now, but eventually you will."

Cutie looked up at the California sun. The new Desmond was interesting but also scary; it would be a while before she got use to his new ways. She planned on being there for him, though, regardless, every step of the way.

Chapter 65

Pressure weighed heavily on Roger's shoulders. Returning to the city from upstate New York where he'd been lying low, he found himself on Newlots Avenue in East New York, Brooklyn. The FEDS made it known he was a wanted man, and they would do whatever to capture him. Evading capture a few times, he refused to leave New York. The hunt would continue if he went to another state, regardless, so he saw no reason in leaving.

The FEDS were on a rampage in the city, raiding prominent Jamaican hangouts in search of persons of Southside origin.

Roger supplied Desire with funds to open a few grocery stores she managed outside his presence. Revealing she was pregnant saddened him. No matter how much he wanted to be there for her, he couldn't. He called when he could, but the hunt for his capture put a wedge in their relationship. He was too busy dodging the FEDS to focus on Desire. _At least I left her something to build on._

__ Saddened by news of Desmond's disloyalty to the JLP, Roger contemplated his friend's fate.

In California, Desmond was among known PNP men, totally disregarding the brutal political clash in Jamaica. Openly moving around with the opposition, he let it be known that he cared nothing of what _anyone_ thought.

In Jamaica, the PNP was leading in the polls, ahead of the JLP by a large margin. Political clashes reached an all-time high. People were being slaughtered for their affiliation. Communities were burned to the ground for choosing the wrong party.

Roger could not help but think what the fate of his people would be like if the PNP won the race. Southside would suffer severely. It was but so much he could do if things turned in the opposing parties favor. Though he had lots of money, it was not enough to help every single person in Southside.

Itchy and Bulla proved to be loyal soldiers, even in America. Oddly, when Roger sent for the two, word got back that Natty Blacks fled the U.S. for Jamaica. Word was out that the old Don was in discussions with Michael Stewarts about taking back Southside.

Seeing no choice in the matter, Roger made the ultimate decision to head back home, also. He had enough money to protect himself from the police force there. Furthermore, Bullet had returned to Jamaica and was in charge of Tivoli Gardens, leaving a safe haven open for him.

The tables were turning, drastically, but he would not give in. Southside was in need of a leader, urgently. His younger cousin, Kirk, was raising hell in the area, elevating as a significant ranking, but was not ready to hold the position as Don. He was the only person who could fill the vacant slot.

Chapter 66

"Bossy, those guys are PNP," said Itchy, pointing at a van Desmond had gotten out of filled with men.

Stopping by a casino in downtown Los Angeles, Desmond met Itchy in the establishment's parking area. He was happy to see the boy, his soldier.

"How do you know they are PNP?" he asked.

The men who'd dropped him to the casino were indeed from PNP communities.

"Boss man, the nigga in the front seat is named Paul. He's from Spoilers," said Itchy, who never forgot a face.

"Wow, you're right," said Desmond. "But Paul and I have decided to step in HIS Majesty's direction. We are no longer into politics."

Itchy sucked his teeth.

"Itchy, we're in America now. You need to leave the politics shit alone. That isn't going to get you anywhere. You need to just Ras up."

Making up his face, Itchy stared at Desmond up and down. He did not want to hear any righteous talk.

"Listen, man, I'm a Laborite for life. I was born one; my mother and father both were Laborites. You're the first person to give me a gun to kill for Laborites. And I'm not changing. I'm a gangster who will represent Southside until they kill me. No one can change that."

Desmond recognized the seriousness in Itchy' tone, and understood the boy's take on things.

"Check it, Itchy, I understand where you're coming from. I will pray for you," he said, walking off on the boy.

Chapter 67

Natty Blacks was making so much money in America that he saw no reason to head back to Jamaica. He'd left politics alone, completely, until receiving a call from Michael Stewarts. The politician begged for his help, which, at first, he refused to give. But then, gradually, he began to contemplate prospective benefits with reentering politics, especially now that he had lots of money. Plus, he still acknowledged Southside as rightfully his. Michael Stewarts guaranteed him total say so in the community, plus extra revenue, so he bit the bait.

Reaching Southside, his first plan was to unite Parade Gardens, starting with a peace treaty between Southside and Tel Aviv. With the move, Southside could move on to big and better things. He and Errol had long ago settled their differences in New York, making things easier to accomplish.

The only problem was the Faucet Lane gang, which had reached the level of Kingston's deadliest gang.

Natty Blacks had yet to figure out what to do with Foster Lane, but had, thus far, gained support from various other streets and lanes in the community. It would only be a matter of time before Foster Lane gave in to his control, he believed.

_____

Trevor Dukes could not shake the funny vibe he was feeling. Walking on East Queen Street, he felt like he was being watched. His conscious was alerting him to be cautious. Turning on Foster Lane, two boys rode a bicycle coming his way, one towing the other on the handlebars. A car came to halt to his rear causing him to jump a bit. _Why didn't I bring my bodyguards?_

__ Two men exited the car with pistols.

Trevor Dukes hurried his steps, looking for an area to run for cover if the men decided to fire.

"Trevor!" shouted a boy on the bike's handlebar, jumping off and engaging the men who exited the car. "Duck!"

The two men fired their guns at Trevor Dukes and the other two boys.

The other two boys returned fire.

Trevor Dukes rested on the ground scared for his life. Spent shells fell on him as the boys fired just above him. They were obviously protecting him; he was sure they were from the Faucet Lane gang.

The shooting went on for close to three minutes.

When the gunplay finally stopped, Trevor Dukes felt someone grab him. Looking up, he saw that it was one of the boys protecting him.

The other boys from the car vanished.

"Come, get on the handlebar," said one of the boys.

Trevor Dukes was towed a street up onto the notorious Faucet Lane, where he was taken to a yard filled with armed youths.

"Kirk, them niggas just tried killing Trevor," said the youth who towed Trevor to the yard.

Kirk had his hair cut into a Mr. T do. As the star, multiple rope gold chains wrapped his neck. He wore a pair of shorts and a white net marina shirt, revealing a chiseled slim frame. The handles of two Desert Eagles showed from his waist. Dark shades graced his dark face.

"Trevor, why are you walking out here without your bodyguards?" he asked.

"I never felt the need to-"

"What?" Kirk interrupted. "Natty Blacks is out here. He's rolling with Michael Stewarts and their killing anything going against their campaign."

"It is rare that politicians are attacked, so I never seen no obligation in needing a bodyguard," explained Trevor.

"Star, whenever you're coming around, just make sure you inform me!" barked Kirk. "Mystro, use the Benz and take Trevor home."

"So you all are not going to tell me what's going on around here?" asked Trevor Dukes.

"War," stated Kirk, giving Trevor Dukes his back.

Trevor Dukes exited the yard. The narrow lane was lined with expensive vehicles he hadn't noticed on the way inside the yard. He saw a few boys out obviously guarding the lane. It saddened him to see that most of the boys were barely past puberty, all were young. Entering a Benz with the youth Kirk ordered to take him home, he felt weird to be driven by such a young person.

The youth drove to the Barry Street intersect where he stopped and allowed a few boys to move a few objects used to block entry onto the lane. Once everything was out the way, he drove on.

"You look sad, man," smiled the boy. "I know, man, that's just how it goes in the Southside. I wish we could live in peace, but that's just wishful thinking. I'm sixteen and I know I won't make it to twenty five, so for now I have to have all the fun I can have, because the gunmen will soon be coming for me."

A tear escaped Trevor Duke's eye, the youth's words touched his soul. Deep within he knew the boy really would not live to see 25, but that was not the way things were supposed to be.

Poverty left persons with no choice but to take it to the streets, where prison and death awaited. Thus was the continuous cycle in Kingston, Jamaica.

Right then and there Trevor Dukes decided to quit politics. Jamaica's leading parties were the cause of the bloodshed that occurred daily, and he wanted no more parts of being a participant in the bloodletting.

Chapter 68

Years of gun-battles paid-off, Desmond's reflexes were still intact. Thus, when Itchy and Bulla materialized, he instantly took out his gun and aimed at the two. They froze, making it easy to kill them, but he did not want to, unless he had to. After exiting his car, he quickly made out the boys who appeared from behind a parked vehicle on his residential block. He wondered how they knew where he lived, but remembered Roger had his address. _Roger sent them._

"Buss y'all guns!" he shouted in a rage. "What are y'all waiting on?! Didn't y'all come to kill me?!"

It was mind boggling how things came to a head. Two persons he brought into the game were now waving guns at him in a threatening manner.

"You're on some bullshit, boss man. You went against us, the same one's you brought in the order," voiced Itchy.

"Roger sent y'all to kill me, right? So kill me!" screamed Desmond in a rage, spittle flying from his mouth.

Itchy and Bulla began to inch backwards.

"We will catch up to you, boss," said Bulla.

"Okay, keep moving," said Desmond.

He earnestly wanted to take on the two, but could not. Such a move would be going against his beliefs. The boys did not harm him, so he let them go.

Rushing inside his house, he called Roger.

"So you sent _my_ soldiers to kill me, Roger," he said as soon as his friend answered. "We are like brothers, and you sent people to kill me?"

"I don't know what you are talking about," calmly stated Roger on the other end of the line.

"Wasn't it you who sent Itchy and Bulla to kill me today?"

"Yo, Dezzie, you violated the order. You dissed the program we had set and you're supposed to die for that, man."

"So it doesn't matter that we are like family? It doesn't matter that I was the one who brought you in the Faucet?"

"Nothing matters but the order. If you go against that, you must die. That's the reason why places like Tivoli' has remained strong, everyone there follows orders. You're not supposed to go against that, man."

"Fuck the order!" screamed Desmond, agitated by Roger's calm demeanor. "Me and you are coming from before any fucking order was set!"

"It always goes that way, friends turn enemies. George Phang ended up running his friend Tony Welch out of Jungle; Cow killed his friend Early Bird and took over Matthews Lane; Jim Brown killed off many of his friends to take over Tivoli.' That's just how things go."

Roger's tone was flat, emotionless, causing an uneasiness to settle upon Desmond. Their past relationship no longer mattered, he realized.

"Check it, my brother. May Jah Rastafari guide and protect you," he said hanging up the phone.

Sitting in his living room, he began to cry, something he could not recall ever doing.

_____

Gun Gal saw the FEDS running in the alley and tried jumping a fence, but was grabbed before making the hurdle over. It was no way for her to get away, the agents were everywhere. Handcuffed, she was put to sit down on the ground. Fuming, she watched as the rest of her friends were arrested.

Sprat lied on the ground handcuffed, screaming at the agents.

"Loosen up the cuffs!" he screamed.

Gun Gal could only imagine the trouble she was in. Thinking of Desmond, she hoped he made it to safety. _He just left the alley._

Whatever came of her arrest, she was willing to accept. She'd been in Los Angeles for years committing crime and knew the day would eventually come when she was apprehended. Letting out a long sigh, she waited to he hauled off to prison.

Chapter 69

"So what are you going to name them?" asked Roger, rubbing on Desire's protruding stomach outside their Church Avenue store.

"If they're boys, I'm going to name them both Roger. But if their girls I'm going to name them after your mother. If one is a girl and the other a boy, I'm going to name one Roger and the other after your mother," smiled Desire.

She hugged and kissed Roger, happy he stopped by to check on her. She had not seen him in days and was glad to be in his presence.

"Desire, I'm going back to Jamaica," said Roger, loosening his grip on her.

"What?" Desire questioned. "You can't go back down there. You're a wanted man."

Her eyes twitched as she was on the verge of crying.

"I have to take this risk, baby. They just locked up everyone in California; they're saying they want me and Dezzie. Dezzie left for Jamaica already. I have to go back. I rather go up against the police force down there than up here. At least down there, there are places where the police can't go."

Desire could not hold back the tears any longer. They dropped in abundance. The man of her dreams was leaving; the one she expected to marry and have kids with would soon be gone. _How could he do this to me?_

"Just continue to control the businesses. I love-"

A car stopped in front Roger and Desire filled with men. Two exited the vehicle with guns.

Roger backed up a bit. Watching the street, he saw another man sneaking up on the busy avenue.

The gunmen unleashed their weapons.

Survival dominated Roger's train of thought, he had to survive. As bullets whizzed by, he searched for cover. Seeing nothing to protect his frame from incoming bullets, he used the only thing in sight, the only thing he ever loved. _Desire._

__ Grabbing hold of Desire, he forcibly used her as a shield against the horde of flying bullets.

"Roger!" she screamed, looking back at him with the set of pretty eyes that initially drawn him to her.

Bullets battered Desire's body killing her.

Roger pushed her lifeless body forward and made a run for it along the avenue. Cutting onto an intersecting street, he ran inside a building where he searched to see if he was shot. Miraculously, he was not hit. He began to pace the building's hall, paying no mind to persons who walked back and forth by him. _Damn, Desire._

__ What had he done?

He was sure Desire perished in the hail of bullets intended for him. _Damn._

Figuring it best to disperse, he exited the building and snuck to his car parked a block away.

_____

"Damn, man, the nigga got away," fumed Mark, upset he didn't get a clear shot on Roger.

"That fucker used the pregnant bitch as a shield," voiced Clarks.

Mark was flabbergasted by Roger's blatant disregard for the pregnant woman. _He's cold._

__ He'd done many treacherous things in life, but could never pull a move like Roger had.

"Clarks, that's some real fucked up shit that nigga did, man," he said, shaking his head.

"I'm telling you, but such is life," mentioned Clarks.

Chapter 70

Air Jamaica's flight 12 touched Norman Manley International Airport's tarmac just after one o'clock in the afternoon. Staring outside the plane's window, Roger searched for signs of authority figures waiting on him. The coast seemed clear, but he braced for any surprise.

Traveling with Itchy and Bulla, he and the boys exited the plane headed straight for immigration, where they were cleared under pseudo names. He hadn't brought any luggage, neither had the boys, so they headed right outside the airport and hailed a cab.

"Driver, take me to Lazarus Lane in Tivoli Gardens," he said, trying to get comfortable in the cab's back seat.

The cabbie looked back at the three suspiciously.

"Listen, I'm not going down to Tivoli.' It is election time now and people are dying down there," argued the cabbie.

Roger smirked at the cabbie's remark. It'd been years since he set foot in Jamaica and things seemed the same. He understood the cabbie's concerns, election time was definitely a dangerous time.

"Cabbie, you're safe, man. Just drop me off near the highway down there," he said.

"Alright, but you all have to pay now."

"Yo, nigga, what the fu-"

"Level!" interrupted Roger, looking over at Bulla who was ready to discipline the cabbie. "Here's a twenty U.S., keep the change."

He handed the cabbie a crisp twenty-dollar bill.

The cabbie snatched the note and sped off.

Roger was glad to have escaped the airport. Many a Dons had not made it as far as he reached thus far, many were captured as soon as they exited the plane.

As the cab rode through the Kingston streets, he caught flashbacks of his days as a youth. Passing communities such as Harbor View, Boa Bank, and Rockfort, he remembered playing in the particular communities with friends. At the time, the areas seemed so peaceful, but later on he found out how dangerous they actually were.

When the cabbie pulled up to Tivoli,' Roger noticed a group standing in front Bumps. The men watched with cautious eyes as he, Itchy, and Bulla got out the cab and approached.

"What's going on? Is Bullet around?" Roger asked.

He did not recognize any of the youths, who were far younger than himself. _New generation._

"Who wants to know?" asked a big boned male at the forefront of the Bumps group.

"Roger Faucet wants to know."

"Oh shit! Roger from South?" asked the male.

Roger shook his head.

"Come in."

The male led Roger inside a building where Bullet and a few men were busy loading weapons.

"Roger, that's you?" asked Bullet, looking up from what he was doing.

"Yeah."

"Star, I thought they got you like everybody else.

"Nah, man, you should know I'm swift."

"Anyway, we're headed to 'Jungle. Some niggas up there killed two of the Showers last night, so you know we have to defend that," explained Bullet. "Just go upstairs and wait on me. My mother is up there."

"What's up, Roger," interjected Bulla. "Can we roll with them?"

Bulla was anxious to do some fresh killing in Jamaica.

"Can they step?" Roger asked Bullet.

"What do you mean? Of course they could step."

Bullet lifted the top of a nearby box filled with guns.

"Pick anyone y'all want," he said.

Itchy and Bulla quickly moved to the box.

"Like I said, I will see you in a little while," said Bullet.

"Yeah, man," responded Roger.

_____

Itchy made up his face as he was reluctantly led to a roof on top a high rise in Arnett Gardens. He felt naked without a gun, disappointed he was captured by rivals when entering Concrete Jungle.

Why hadn't the 'Jungle men killed him like they did Bulla and Bullet?

Remembering the way the two were blown to pieces hurt his mind.

Separating from the rest of Tivoli' men was a bad decision, they were surrounded when entering the Havana side in Arnett Gardens. Bulla and Bullet were instantly assassinated, shot multiple times, but Itchy was held hostage for whatever the 'Jungle men had in store.

On the building's roof, Itchy was forced to his knees.

"You fucking Laborite, pussy!" shouted one Jungliest, slapping Itchy hard across the face with a pistol.

Itchy fell sideways to the ground. The entire top row of his teeth shattered spilling onto the floor in a bloody mess.

Two Jungliest approached with a large black garbage type bag.

Itchy was forced inside the bag and tied in. Claustrophobia settled upon him when faced with total darkness inside the bag. He wiggled around and tried his best to break free, but his efforts were in vain. He could hear the men laughing around him. Someone kicked him so hard in the stomach he defecated in his pants. Then, suddenly, he felt himself go airborne. Someone lifted him in the air before dropping him. He knew he was thrown off the roof and was just waiting to hit the pavement. When he finally did, he felt every bone inside his body crack before death settled upon him.

Chapter 71

"Jah! Rastafari!" Desmond shouted over the mountains of his Smokey Vale pad. "Jah, guide and protect me as I journey through the unpredictable Kingston streets. Keep a watchful eye over me on the tedious pilgrimage. Keep me invisible from all my enemies and those who wish me harm. Continue to grant me blessings, father God."

Cutie remained silent behind Desmond. She wanted to tell him she was prepared for their journey but did not want to disturb him while he was praying. Prayer had become very essential to them both, they strongly believed one should not be disturbed when talking to the Lord.

She'd followed Desmond into the Rastafarian way of life. After numerous hours and days of teaching/studying, she'd come to the realization that Selassie I was indeed the true ruler of the entire universe.

Desmond felt Cutie's presence and turned to face her. It was a sight to see his empress in a red-green-and gold long dress, her face with no makeup to block out her natural beauty. The locks she recently started growing were budding, over lapsing onto her face.

"You're ready?" he asked, moving closer to Cutie and kissing her on the mouth.

"Yes," she giggled.

"Come on than, let's go."

Rockfort was their mission for the day, where they would march alongside Rasta brethren's through the streets to promote peace in the area.

_____

"Michael, the boy is back around, he sent word to me that I should leave the area," said Natty Blacks.

"We have to get rid of him. I'm going to talk to my contacts about this problem. He has to be eliminated," sternly stated Michael Stewarts.

Natty Blacks rubbed his beard while shaking his head. Roger was back in Southside and had him nervous. To make matters worse, neighborhood residents were rooting for Roger as their Don. _He has to die._

__ Natty Blacks had a plan, though. This time around, there would be a firm fight for the community. He would not allow the boy to run over him. Southside was rightfully his, and no one else's.

Chapter 72

Relaxing inside a Foster Lane yard, Roger peeled an orange with a ratchet knife, happy to be home. No matter how much he missed New York, he would not give up Southside for the big city of dreams.

Upon returning to Southside, he sent men on High Holborn Street to inform Natty Blacks to leave the community, or else. He then sent men to Concrete Jungle with orders to kill anyone on the street in retaliation for Bullet, Itchy, and Bulla's death. Lastly, he sent a message to Dignity offering the cop a standoff.

He was on a mission to take over Kingston.

"Star, they're renovating my house uptown, so I'm stuck down here with you all," laughed Roger.

"That's a good thing. You're supposed to be down here," laughed Kirk.

"On a serious note, I love how you all dealt with the Jungliests. Those guys killed some good dudes. Jah knows."

"We're not done with them yet," verified Kirk.

New converts filled the yard, chiefly youngsters.

Roger was amazed at how eager the boys, and even girls, were to prove themselves. His word was law. Everyone followed his rules without protest.

"I'm about to make a move," he said, getting to his feet and stretching. "I'm going to go and link some allies up in the Back Bush area."

"You want for me to come to watch your head back?" asked Kirk.

"Everything's alright, man. These pussies know better than to fuck with me," confidently stated Roger. "I'll be back."

"Okay, Don."

Leaving the yard, Roger got inside a brand-new BMW. Driving to Tower Street, he decided to check on a few people before heading out. Turning on the drag, a makeshift roadblock up ahead on High Holborn Street caught his attention. Looking back to reverse, he saw a few armed men walk out into the street blocking his way.

"Shit," he muttered.

A tear fell from his eye when coming to terms with his situation. Weaponless, he used the only thing available to defend himself, his car. Slamming on the gas, his vehicle accelerated in the gunmen's direction. The men moved out the way just in time, causing him to crash into a wall. Attempting to put the car in drive, a tap at his window startled him. His heart seemingly paused when seeing the tapper. Seeing there was no way out of the situation, he sat back in his seat, shaking his head. _Damn, God, I needed just a little more time down here._

A few gunmen dragged Roger from the car disappearing with him on High Holborn Street.

Chapter 73

Residents on Barnes Lane called the dark-complexioned man _Mad T._ He moved about the streets in a zombie like state, seemingly in oblivion to what was going around himself. He ate food from trash bins, scraps on the street. Everyone messed with him, but he messed with no one. Regardless the weather, he could be found on Barnes Lane.

Barnes Lane had been a hotbed of violence for the past few months, calling to attention Rastafarian brethren's from east Kingston. A large group of the outfit walked with placards of Selassie I's face, shouting certain axioms.

"Revolution!" they shouted. "No more killing for politicians!"

Desmond and Cutie walked at the head of the group beside Ras Negus, shouting along with the Rasta's. In between shouts, they gave each other seductive glances, yearning for one another. Cutie was pregnant for Desmond and they were both happy. Everything was going good in their lives. They were having a house built in Westmoreland where they planned on living out the rest of their days, and had a couple businesses up and running in Kingston.

As the congregation made way on Barnes Lane, Cutie noticed a lone figure walking toward the group. The individual, a man, looked vaguely familiar but she could not fully make out the person from the distance. A funny feeling overcame her. No one seemed to notice the person, but her. Everyone was busy shouting. When the individual got closer her heart skipped a beat. She stopped cold in her tracks causing for Desmond to do the same.

"What happened?" he asked her, turning in time to see the strange person lunging at him.

Cutie could not move, she watched as the man pierced Desmond's chest with a huge blade.

Desmond's mouth became agape, his eyes widened. He looked at the stranger and then at Cutie before cracking a smile and falling to the ground.

Cutie focused on the man who stabbed Desmond, who stared at her with evil eyes. Just as he lifted the blade and attempted to charge at her, the rest of Rastafarian brethren grabbed hold of him and beat him to a bloody death.

The situation was traumatic. In minutes, Cutie lost her baby's father and soon to be baby's father on Barnes Lane.

_____

Pedestrians crowded Mark Lane trying to figure out what was in a strange, lone barrel on the street. Insects of all sorts buzzed around the container, attracted to the gruesome smell of the contents inside.

Dignity came on the scene as soon as he heard about the discovery and ordered the gathering to back away from the barrel. Placing his shirt over his mouth and nose to block out the foul odor, he swooped at the insects around the barrel. The current situation was a familiar one, he was almost sure what he would discover inside the container.

Opening the barrel, his mouth dropped open. The gathering caught his reaction and began to inch closer to get a better look, bringing him back to composure.

"Everybody, back up!" he shouted.

The crowd backed away; no one dared protest the killer cop's order.

Although the body was badly decomposed, Dignity instantly recognized the corpse. _Someone finally killed Roger from South._

He cracked a smile. Someone saved him the hassle of killing the Faucet Lane Dons. He'd heard about Desmond's death just a day before. A hearty laugh escaped his mouth. The gathering looked at him as if he was crazy, but he did not care.

Chapter 74

Even though the PNP won the general election, Natty Blacks was glad to be the reigning Don in Southside. Sitting inside his Benz on Super Stud corner, he thought about what it had taken to regain his status in the community. A lot of people turned on him when the going got rough, many of whom he had executed when regaining power. People were now begging for his forgiveness. He never felt more happy.

Michael Stewarts had, once again, kept his seat in Parliament. Together, he and Natty Blacks planned on bulldozing the entire Southside and rebuilding it into buildings and exclusive homes.

Natty Blacks was excited about the plan and was willing to do whatever it took for the project to go through.

Getting rid of Roger wasn't much of a difficult task, Natty Blacks preyed on the boy's weakness for attention.

Roger walked and drove around Southside as if everyone loved him. This mistake cost him his life.

Just as Natty Blacks started his car to drive off, someone tapped his window. His heart raced when seeing Kirk, who had a gun trained on him. Putting up his hands to guard his face, bullets crashed through the window penetrating his face and head killing him instantly.

Afterwards

Ten-year-old Desmond ran up and down Foster Lane excitedly, dipping in and out between parked cars, playing tag with neighborhood children. He never had so much fun in Westmoreland, his hometown, as he had in Southside, his second home. Whenever on Foster Lane, he was treated like a king by community residents.

His mother had been bringing him to Southside since he was a toddler, and he grew to love the community. He felt out of place in Westmoreland, his place of birth. He never wanted to leave Southside when he went to the area. He loved the community so much that he promised to return to the neighborhood for good when he came of age.

Books my N.E. Nugent:

LEAKY FAUCET 2 (Children of Lebanon)

available @amazon.com

WHAT UP, BLOOD?

available @amazon.com
