K'wan - Gutter

“Oh, shit they laid the homey!” a nameless face said, motioning toward Bruticus’s body.

Pop Top walked over and looked down at his slain friend. “Damn,” he whispered, hearing Gutter’s warning about Major Blood ringing off in his head. “What kinda nigga shoots up a fucking funeral home?”

“The kind Gutter warned us about,” Hollywood said, making the sign of the cross over the fallen homeys.

“What the fuck we gonna do now, Top?” High Side asked.

“Make sure we don’t end up like that.” He nodded at Bruticus. “Wood,” he addressed the pretty boy with a plan forming in his head. “The homey got something he need done and I’m gonna need you with me on this.”

“All day, homey. What you need?” Hollywood asked, forgetting that they’d been about to come to blows a few minutes before.

“I’m gonna call you with an address and have you come meet me. Once we rally the troops, we take action. It’s time I did something to bring an end to this shit and restore some type of order to Harlem Crip. I’m getting Major Blood off our asses and ending this fucking war once and for all.”

“We ’bout to go after Major Blood?” Hollywood asked.

“Something like that. I’ll put it to you like this, in a few days this little war will be over and Major Blood will be officially out of our hair,” Pop Top assured them before walking around the corner.

Hollywood looked to High Side for an explanation, but he just shrugged. There was something going on with Pop Top that Hollywood couldn’t place his finger on, but he had a bad feeling about it. “I’m up, fam. I ain’t trying to be around when the police come asking what happened.”

“Shit, me either. I’m getting the fuck from around here,” High Side said, watching as people finally got the courage to come out of the bullet-riddled funeral home.

“C, it might be a good idea for you to get out of here too. If you want I can give you a ride?” Hollywood offered.

C-style managed to tear her watery eyes away from the carnage. “Nah, I’m gonna stay for a while.”

Hollywood knew that she was still going through the motions over Rob so it would be useless to argue the point of why she shouldn’t stick around after a shoot-out. “A’ight, ma, but let me take that from you.” He reached over and took the gun she had forgotten was in her hand. “C, you sure you’re good?” The girl nodded weakly. “Cool, baby. Do what you gotta do and stay off the block for a while. I got a bad feeling about this shit,” Hollywood warned before dipping off to his car with High Side on his heels.

C-style just stood there for a while, staring at the ruined funeral home and the horrified looks on the mourners’ faces. Two of the homeys were escorting Rob’s mother and Ms. Lucy from the funeral home to the limo. She could tell they were terrified and rightfully so. It was bad enough that they had lost their babies, but the war wouldn’t even allow them to mourn in peace.

C-style took her blue bandanna from her purse and went to wipe her face, but stopped in midmotion. It was the same bandanna she’d been given when Big Keke and the home girls had put her on the set. Her heart had swelled with pride when she received it and Gutter embraced her as one of his lil home girls, but now it represented the ugliness that being in a gang had brought into her life. Until that moment it had been one of her most prized possessions.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” she whispered to herself. C-style let the bandanna slip from her hand and float to the ground. This drew some disapproving looks from some of the home boys that were still gathered around, but at that point she didn’t care. She was done with the set.

LEXI WASpropped against the lumpy white pillows, trying her best to get comfortable. Her head felt like a herd of elephants was on parade inside it. Hollywood had treated her to a hairline fracture and a severe concussion. To add insult to injury Major Blood had botched the hit on him. She was pissed, but her visitor had eased the pain a bit.

When she’d gotten the initial phone call she thought it to be a prank or even a setup, but as she brushed her hand against the manila envelope containing the five g’s she knew it to be real. If her source was on the up-and-up then Gutter had finally gone too far and Major Blood would get a second chance at Hollywood. Soon she would call him to set the final wheels in motion, but the morphine drip in her IV told her it could wait until after her nap.

THE EAST SIDE OF COMPTON: SOUTH ATLANTIC AND EAST COMPTON BOULEVARD

“MAN, WHATthe fuck is this nigga doing way over on this side?” Criminal asked from the backseat.

“Fuck if I know,” Blue Bird said, taking a hit off the dipped cigarette and trying to pass it to Tears, but he declined so Criminal readily snatched it. “What I do know is that these niggaz is out of bounds, aiding and abetting a fucking fugitive!”

“Man, y’all need to put that shit out and get focused on the muthafucking task at hand,” Tears said, rolling down the windows. “We deep in enemy territory, cuz. I’m sure if Major has brought a crib out this way there’s probably some 900s ’round here too.” Tears pulled up to a red light at the corner of East Compton Boulevard and South Atlantic Avenue.

“Fuck 900s and for damn sure fuck Lime Street, I’m dumping on sight,” Criminal said, way louder than he needed to. The PCP was obviously kicking in.

A group of young men standing in front of the store caught Blue Bird’s attention. He recognized them all as members of East Side Lime Street except the one in the wheelchair. He was a 900. Being the troublemaker he was, he looked back at Criminal and said, “Say, cuz, there go some Nines right there. You gonna let them marks clown you by posting up when they know we riding?”

“Nigga what? Watch this muthafucka bark.” Criminal brandished a long-nosed Colt. Tears knew what was about to go down and had it not been for the red light he would’ve pulled off. Before he could even protest Criminal was out of the car and heading in the direction of the store.

IT WASa beautiful night on the Pacific Coast. The sack chasers were out sacking, and the dope boys were out getting their sling on. Just another day in the hood… At least it was for the moment.

“What’s up, East Side?” A man in a wheelchair asked, rolling up to the store. He was dressed in black Dickies pants and a red T-shirt.

“Oh, shit, Big Bo from the Nine!” He snatched his green Seattle Supersonics hat off for emphasis. “Man, fuck you doing way over here?”

“Same thing you doing, nigga, trying to cop a bottle and get blown,” Bo told him, wheeling up to the window to place his order.

“They ain’t got no liquor stores where you stay at?” A man in a Raider’s cap asked sarcastically.

“Hell yeah, you know the hood ain’t got nothing but hard times and liquor stores. Me and the homeys is kicking it off San Luis at the rest.”

“Y’all posted up over here? You must be ready to flip that Lime?” another young man asked. He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, but there was a green sports band around his arm, the kind you would get at a club.

Bo looked up at him. “You know I ain’t no set flipper, Blood. It’s Nine or nothing, y’all know my style.” He threw up his set.

“Man, your old ass still out here tripping, wheelchair and all,” Lil Bay teased him.

“Please believe it, my nigga. They might’ve put me down”-he dipped under the seat of his wheelchair, and came up holding a small pistol-“but not out, you feel me, dawg? I ain’t tripping though. My nigga Major copped a pad for his people down that way, so we just come through and coast. Me, Mo-Mo, and the nigga Reckless.”