of this gang. They aren't nothing but crap. I have given up any life of my own to make sure that you guys get the breaks I never had. Do you really think that I would let anyone do this . . . " he shook the rag in Evan's face, "to my family? Do you really think that I would let you ruin everything that I have worked for? How dare you bring the drugs and the darkness into my home with these babies! I'll kill you myself before I let you destroy my family. Take me to them, Evan. Show them to me. "
"Robby!" Evan cried louder. "I'll quit the gang. I won't smoke pot no more. I'll go back to school. I'll . . . "
"You don't understand what you've done. You can't just walk away. They won't let you walk away. Do you think people stay in gangs because they like it? No. They stay because once they're in, they're afraid. Afraid that their so-called friends will kill them if they try to leave, and if they don't some other gang will. And it's not just you Evan, you've put us all in danger, that's how it works. You try to walk out of the gang, they kill one of the kids. You've created a situation that can only be cured one way. Take me to them . . . NOW!"
Evan didn't want to, but he led his brother to his friends. The party he had left earlier still raged. It was in an old abandoned shack at the end of a slum street. There was so much pot and crack being smoked in there that it was coming out the windows. The bitter cold had driven everyone inside.
Robby got out of the truck and donned his "costume". He turned to Evan and snarled at him. "You stay here, don't you dare move. And always remember that everything that happens tonight is your fault."
Evan nodded silently. As Robby walked away Evan sank down into the floorboards, where he covered his ears and tried to block out the screams. Several minutes passed and then Robby opened the door and got in. He started the car and headed home. He looked at Evan quaking in the floor. "You can only belong to one gang, Evan, and that's us. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Robby."
Chapter Seven
"A good name is better than precious ointment;
and the day of death than the day of one's birth.
It is better to go to the house of mourning, than
to go to the house of feasting: for that is the end
of all men; and the living will lay it to his heart.
Sorrow is better than laughter: for by the sadness
of the countenance the heart is made glad."
Ecclesiastes 7:1-3
This time it was bad. These bodies weren't neatly brain-fried; they were blown up. At least fifteen prominent members of the Skulls, a local street gang, had died in the carnage last night. Five people had lived through it, and the stories they told were . . . well, ludicrous.
"I'm telling you . . . a purple ski mask and a red cape," the punk said for the fourteenth time.
Tommy shook his head. "Humor me, and tell me again."
"This dude came through the door wearing a purple ski mask and a red cape. Big Jerry yelled Who the fuck do you think you are, weenie boy? He yelled back The Angel of Death! and BOOM! Jerry blew up, and then the dude just went around the room blowing people up."
"What did the weapon look like?"
"Man, for the thousandth time. There weren't no fucking weapon, at least nothing you could see. When he had finished he looked at us'ns and said, This is the only chance I'm giving you. Turn back from the course you are following or fry like the others. "
The kid was scared—terrified and shaking. No doubt coming down off some drug, but he told the same story that the other four had. To the letter.
Tommy watched as Spider drove up. She got out looking more than a little perturbed. "What took you so long?" Tommy asked with a smile.
Spider looked back at him and snarled. At two o'clock in the morning she didn't feel like joking. Mostly she felt like sleeping. Carrie was trying to kill her; not that it wasn't how she'd always dreamt of
"Robby!" Evan cried louder. "I'll quit the gang. I won't smoke pot no more. I'll go back to school. I'll . . . "
"You don't understand what you've done. You can't just walk away. They won't let you walk away. Do you think people stay in gangs because they like it? No. They stay because once they're in, they're afraid. Afraid that their so-called friends will kill them if they try to leave, and if they don't some other gang will. And it's not just you Evan, you've put us all in danger, that's how it works. You try to walk out of the gang, they kill one of the kids. You've created a situation that can only be cured one way. Take me to them . . . NOW!"
Evan didn't want to, but he led his brother to his friends. The party he had left earlier still raged. It was in an old abandoned shack at the end of a slum street. There was so much pot and crack being smoked in there that it was coming out the windows. The bitter cold had driven everyone inside.
Robby got out of the truck and donned his "costume". He turned to Evan and snarled at him. "You stay here, don't you dare move. And always remember that everything that happens tonight is your fault."
Evan nodded silently. As Robby walked away Evan sank down into the floorboards, where he covered his ears and tried to block out the screams. Several minutes passed and then Robby opened the door and got in. He started the car and headed home. He looked at Evan quaking in the floor. "You can only belong to one gang, Evan, and that's us. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Robby."
Chapter Seven
"A good name is better than precious ointment;
and the day of death than the day of one's birth.
It is better to go to the house of mourning, than
to go to the house of feasting: for that is the end
of all men; and the living will lay it to his heart.
Sorrow is better than laughter: for by the sadness
of the countenance the heart is made glad."
Ecclesiastes 7:1-3
This time it was bad. These bodies weren't neatly brain-fried; they were blown up. At least fifteen prominent members of the Skulls, a local street gang, had died in the carnage last night. Five people had lived through it, and the stories they told were . . . well, ludicrous.
"I'm telling you . . . a purple ski mask and a red cape," the punk said for the fourteenth time.
Tommy shook his head. "Humor me, and tell me again."
"This dude came through the door wearing a purple ski mask and a red cape. Big Jerry yelled Who the fuck do you think you are, weenie boy? He yelled back The Angel of Death! and BOOM! Jerry blew up, and then the dude just went around the room blowing people up."
"What did the weapon look like?"
"Man, for the thousandth time. There weren't no fucking weapon, at least nothing you could see. When he had finished he looked at us'ns and said, This is the only chance I'm giving you. Turn back from the course you are following or fry like the others. "
The kid was scared—terrified and shaking. No doubt coming down off some drug, but he told the same story that the other four had. To the letter.
Tommy watched as Spider drove up. She got out looking more than a little perturbed. "What took you so long?" Tommy asked with a smile.
Spider looked back at him and snarled. At two o'clock in the morning she didn't feel like joking. Mostly she felt like sleeping. Carrie was trying to kill her; not that it wasn't how she'd always dreamt of
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