Sam Pink - Witch Piss

He grabbed a plastic jug near his bed and put it beneath his blankets, pissed.

He set the jug back down, almost knocking it over.

“Ohps,” he said, catching the jug and settling it.

Face said, “Be right back. Finna get them beers.”

He jogged down the alley.

I noticed there was a roof ten feet above Troy and his bed throne.

“Oh man, that’s nice,” I said. “Just saw that.”

Troy gestured to it with his hand. “Aw yeah, tissa dissa thing, it’s, I mean ey…the rain starts pouring, ey, RUN IT!”

“RUN IT!” was something he said a lot — like “Yes!” or “All right!”

I think it referred to using a credit card, like when you ‘run it’ through the sliding machine.

Or maybe it was football-related.

Not sure.

Troy’s main sayings were:

“That’s not my problem/That’s on you/Run it!”

I leaned on a dumpster, my elbows and forearms on the lid.

Another beautiful day.

Glad to be alive and have friends.

Troy was already asleep again, both hands on his chest.

A rat crawled out from behind the freight door and onto his blanket.

He partially woke up, trying to launch/tent the rat off him by pushing his hands up under areas of the blanket.

On the third attempt, he launched the rat off the blanket.

Face came back with a 1/3-full fifth and an Old Style 12-pack containing different bottles of beer he’d taken from the Two Door.

He passed me the fifth and I took a pull, checked the bottle.

McCormick’s whiskey.

Special Reserve.

Since 1856.

I took another pull.

The first pull tasted like whiskey and the second one tasted like something else — something you’d use as an extreme measure against acne.

I drank warm beer along with it, hoping to die in my sleep.

“Thanks man,” I said to Face, holding up my Old Style.

“What I always tell you?” Face said.

I did an impression of him. “You good, cous? You need something?”

Face laughed, stomping the ground a little.

He switched his hat from back/left to straight backwards.

Troy pointed. “Whassa, ey, y’goin neutral there?”

Face smiled. “Yizzir.”

Troy said, “Folkz and People and issa all that gang bullshit, heh.”

Face flipped his hat to the right. “This for them Folkz.” Then flipped it to the left. “This for People.” He looked at me, nodded upwards. “Who you with, cous? Who you with?”

I said, “You know damn well I got Folk love, bitch, till the motherfuckin world blow.”

Face laughed, slapping the dumpster lid.

“For certain, cous,” he said. Then he cleared his throat and looked serious. “But nah, man. I done seen all that shit growing up in the projects. Yizzir, I done see some shit people never see in they goddamn life, man. Damn jo, sometimes I say to myself, ‘Face, how you survive this shit? How you still here?’” He nodded a little, looking at me. “We talkin bout, ‘Get Mine, Protect Yours,’ cous. And them niggas is nasty.”

He described the layout of the different buildings in the projects where he grew up.

It was where the Bulls and Blackhawks played, a mile and a half outside of The Loop.

“See, they was fo buildings in my projects. Different gang in each building, cous. They was um, GDs, BDs, Foes, and Travs. I’s hustling Travs, cous.”

“Travelling Vicelords,” I said.

“Yizzir. Fo buildings. GDs in this one”—he motioned with his hand, keeping his other hand at a different location—“BDs right here, and Foes up in there, and us Travs, we’s in this building.”

He took a pull off the fifth and passed it.

I took a pull.

Face said, “We had a abandoned apartment at the bottom of my building.” He pointed at the large freight door behind Troy’s bed, where Troy was sleeping. “And in the middle, they was a big empty window. Talkin bout, we use’a creep up along against the wall, then”—he turned sideways and held out an imaginary gun—“Blaow Blaow. Poppin BDs all day.” He put up a VL sign on his hand. He was smiling at me, shaking his head. “I use’a think I’d never die, cous. Use’a think I’s fucking unstoppable. I use’a think them bullets”—he stuck his chest out then touched all his fingers to his chest, let his hands drop—“clink, clink, talkin bout them bullets just fall right off me, cous. That’s what I thought. Ain shit you could do to me back then. But nah, then they kilt my friend — my nigga, Big Soft. That was my boy. Man jo, he a skinny ass motherfucker man, shit. Buck oh five with the rocks and Hennessy in his pants, cous. Crook-eyed motherfucker. But that nigga had the whole hood scared. Nobody in our building fucked with him, jo. Then, one night I’s with him, and we’s running from some hoods blassin at us, cause you know I done been shot at 19,000 times. And motherfuckers got him with a AK.” He pointed to just above one hip, “Bullet went from here”—then pointed to his other hip—“all the way out here. I done seen him fall and die in the street. Fucked me up. That’s when I got out of the bullshit, man.”

“They didn’t try to kill you?” I said.

“Hell nah. That’s some bullshit. Ain no jump in jump out with us. No blood in/blood out. Uh uh. We ain do that bullshit, rabbit-ass gang shit. Nah. You don’t put yo hands on me. That’s for the Puerto Rican, fuckin, Messican gangs. Shit though, not the brothers. You don’t put yo hands on the brothers. How I’m gonna help yo ass when you kickin me and shit? Fuck nah, nigga. Don’t put yo hands on me.”

Troy woke up a little, barking out some mucus.

Face said, “Oh sorry, T.” He shook his head and clicked his teeth. “Nah but I done seen it all though, cous. Yizzir. I done see some shit,” He put a finger to his temple. “I wish I had a plug or some shit, put my mind inside yo mind.” He pointed to the scar on his cheek. “See this shit. Motherfuckers cut me over some rocks. Like fo lil rocks. Yizzir. I done seen motherfuckers shoot a nigga right in the face.” He pointed a gun at his face and went, “Blahhhhh”—staggering back a little. “I done seen a nigga get his head cut off and thowed out a 15-story window. I done seen a motherfucker — you know them 2 by 4’s? — I done see a motherfucker tied up with a arm on each end of a 2 by 4 and a motherfucker take a bat and bust up all this here”—pointing to his ribs. “Man, I had to run out, I was puking from hearing nothing but bones crackin. Cruck cruck cruck. I done seen a motherfucker thowed down the uh, you know them garbage chutes? Over some 20 dollars man, shit. That’s how we did it though, cous. We use’a kick it and bang all the time. I’d have my rocks, my Hennessy, some rolls, fucking everything. Sit on the stoop with my strap.” He lifted his shirt a little by his waistband. “Man, one time we was on the block and this nigga went through the alley with a, you know a, a tommy gun? Fucking bussin that shit for like three minutes straight. Big ass bulletholes in the metal mailbox in our building, jo. Could put yo thumb in the holes, man. But shit, I’on’t know. I never gave a fuck bout that shit, cous. I thought I’s the devil hisself sometimes. I eat a bullet like some fuckin mints.” He speared out his gum with his long pinkynail and took a pull off the fifth then put the gum back in his mouth. “Oh shit, that remind me. Troy, you seen that motherfucker Jeffrey?”

Troy was asleep.

“Troy?” Face said. “Ey.”

Troy opened his eyes and tried to focus.

“You seen Jeffrey?”

“Who?”

“Jeffrey,” Face said, louder.

Troy wiped his eyes. “Oh yeah frissa bissa, haha, becussa the burrito thing?”

He rested his hands on his chest, fingers interlaced and seemingly revived from his nap.