K'wan - Gutter

The man Gutter had come to see sat on a crate in the last unit. Also inside the unit were Young Rob, Hollywood, and a female named C-style. The room was filled with wooden crates, marked from different ports in the Middle East, and loose sheets of bubble wrap. Some of the crates were sealed, while others sat on the floor open. In the center of all this, Pop Top was hunched over examining a Russian machine gun.

“Sup, O.G. Gutter?” Top asked, looking up from his inspection. A crown of dusty black hair sat atop his head. It had begun to thin in the middle from the stress of hard living, but Top refused to cut it. He was never big on appearances.

“Maintaining,” Gutter said, making a mental note of how many boxes were stacked in the room. “Sup wit all that traffic out there?”

“That ain’t ’bout nothing,” Top said, putting the gun down. “A few of the homeys came by to spend something wit Harlem. Them niggaz is hyped off the new hardware we got.”

“If they copped already, why they still here?” Gutter questioned.

“It’s blue, cuz. They just kick’n it,” Top responded.

“It ain’t blue, cuz. You sitting in here on a shitload of illegal burners and you got muthafuckas smoking, congregating in the hall. This ain’t no hangout, Top.”

“I’ll tell the homeys to bounce,” Hollywood said from behind his shades. He had been down with the set since the days when Lou-Loc was around. He was a lanky yellow dude, who always dressed in flamboyant gear. Even his jewels were different. From the iced-out globe he wore around his neck, to his bracelet that spelled out his set, Hollywood was a fly nigga. The former hoops star strode from the room to pass along Gutter’s decree.

Top and Gutter made eye contact, but no challenge was issued. When Gutter had gotten hit up, Lou-Loc had turned Harlem Crip over to Pop Top. At the time it seemed like a wise decision, but it soon turned sour. Pop Top was a warrior to the heart, but he lacked the diplomacy skills to efficiently lead the set.

Havoc reigned in the coming weeks. Top allowed the homeys to run wild and do as they liked. It didn’t take long before the police started riding down on the team, snatching up quite a few of their number on charges. Top solidified Harlem Crip on the streets, but he also sent a blue flag up for the police.

“What we looking at?” Gutter asked, looking over the shipment.

“Shit, ya peoples done set it out,” Top replied, pulling out an invoice. “We got all kind of shit up in this piece. Rifles, handguns, the whole shit, cuz. The regular shit is already sold on the streets, but we got some choice clientele for the pretty shit. We doing the damn thang, cuz.”

“That’s what’s up. Sell off whatever you can and hit the homeys off with the rest. I don’t want nobody on the set to be without a strap. You hear me?” Gutter slapped his hands together.

“I got you, homey.” Pop Top nodded.

“The boy, Diamonds, get wit you on that yet?”

“Yeah, he said he needs like seven and a half this rip.”

Gutter thought on it for a minute. “When he comes to cop, give him eight. I like that country muthafucka’s style.”

“Y’all need to let a bitch hold one of these down,” C-style added, picking up a nickel-plated.22. “I got some lingerie to go with this here.”

“Bitch, please.” Top snatched the gun from her. “You hoes ain’t trying to pop nothing.”

“Fuck you, nigga! Do you call your mama a bitch, bitch?” C-style had a supermodel figure and the features of an Egyptian princess. High cheekbones sat behind her cinnamon face. Though she was a fun-loving chick, she had a low tolerance for disrespect, which Top had to be reminded of all too often.

“Yo, cuz,” Young Rob spoke up. “I heard the young boys Hook and Noodles put the heat to them niggaz from over on Lenox last night.” His youthful brown eyes looked at Gutter eagerly for a response.

“Word?” Gutter replied in a very uninterested tone. When Gutter had gotten the wire the night before he knew it was a good move to bring Hook and Noodles in. They were like he and Lou-Loc had been when they were young and didn’t give a fuck, which made them the perfect protégés. He currently had them tucked away up in Yonkers until the heat in the city died down.

“Straight gangsta,” Rob continued. “Harlem ain’t to be fucked with.”

Gutter ignored Rob’s praises and continued to inspect the arsenal. He was pleased that two more “dead rags” had been taken out of the game, but he didn’t show it. To him, the movement wasn’t about praise; it was about power and old scores. Before it was all said and done, the other side would pay for his friend’s murder a thousand times over.

“I’m taking these,” Gutter said, holding up two German assault rifles.

“Drama, cuz?” Top asked.

“Nah, a birthday present for a friend. Let’s go, Danny.” Gutter said his goodbyes and led Danny from the unit.

NOT LONGafter Gutter left, Sharell got ready to start her day. It was her day off and as much as she wanted to sleep in, she knew she couldn’t. After taking a long hot shower, Sharell sat on the edge of the bed and began to apply lotion to her body. When she got to her protruding stomach, she smiled.

She and Kenyatta were expecting their first child. The pregnancy wasn’t planned, but abortion was never an option. God had blessed them with the most precious of all gifts and she had no intentions on going against his will. With all the stress she had been under, it was a wonder she hadn’t miscarried. With Gutter being hell-bent on his insane quest for vengeance, she feared that the child would grow up without a father. She just hoped that fatherhood would get him to calm down.

Since Lou-Loc’s murder he had ate, slept, and breathed revenge. Diablo and Cisco were dead, but that wasn’t enough for him. In his heart, Gutter felt like he was responsible. Sharell tried to convince him that he wasn’t at fault, but he still carried the burden. He was determined to make anyone affiliated with the rival gang feel his pain.

“Pain,” Sharell said aloud. She was no stranger to it, physically or emotionally. Since she was a little girl it had always been with her and it probably always would.

Sharell was a devout Christian, putting God and family above all else, but it hadn’t always been like that for her. She came up hard on the Harlem streets, right off of 143rd and Lenox Avenue. Her father was a hustler and her mother was an on-again, off-again junkie. Daddy spoiled Sharell when she was little, making sure she was always fly and wanted for nothing. Though her mother spent most of her time nodded out, Sharell had a relatively pleasant childhood. But all that came to an abrupt end shortly before her thirteenth birthday.

Her father had been murdered by a rival drug crew over some money he owed them, or so the police had deduced. The streets told a different story: one where his right-hand man and lieutenant had set him up so he could take his spot. Her father’s soldiers promised to make sure Sharell and her mother were good, but of course it didn’t play out like that. For a while they would come by to check on things or drop a few dollars off, but as time went on and the memory of her father began to fade from the streets, the visits slowed and eventually stopped altogether.

Though Sharell took the death hard, her mother became completely unglued. She stopped going to work and let herself go physically. She wouldn’t eat or wash her ass for days on end. All she did was sit in her room shooting up. As her mother’s grip on reality began to slip, so did her hold on her children. Her younger brother, Malik, took to the streets, determined to pick up where his father left off, while Sharell was left to explore the very same ghettos her father had always tried to keep her sheltered from. It wasn’t long before she was staying out all night, trying different drugs, and living life at a million miles a minute.