No goin’ back now.
Pretty Boy could feel his heart beating, but was glad nobody else could. The smashed window sounded louder than it should’ve in the silence of the night. They were mostly alone on this Chicago street. Nobody was going to pay them any attention, especially since it was just a plain white delivery van anyway. It wasn’t like it was a Porsche or a Rolls or something like that.
They were far enough away from their home in Englewood, so the four of them didn’t need to worry about angering a rival gang down the street. Used to be they were divided by neighborhoods. But once Chicago started getting rid of the projects, everybody was split up. Now there were rival gangs on streets next to each other.
The killin’ never stops bodies crumble obituaries drop.
As always the thoughts in his head came out like lyrics in a rap song. He couldn’t stop them from coming. They just had to go somewhere. That soul inside. It spilled over into mixtapes and freestyle sessions and when it was just him they echoed inside his mind. Especially when he got nervous.
Pretty Boy stood watch on the sidewalk as the guy leading this foursome took his ice pick and cleared shards of glass. His name was Kriminal. And like his name, there was nothing subtle about him. Pretty Boy often joked that Kriminal was the beast while he happened to have inherited all the beauty. But there was a lot of truth in that.
“Come on!” Kriminal shouted at them.
Kriminal had spent a lifetime giving Pretty Boy orders, but that’s what big brothers did.
40 Ounce jumped at the order and climbed in the back door Kriminal had just opened. The three of them were all from the same neighborhood. Little B was the only one who stuck out. They liked giving him a hard time for not being black, but the short, Hispanic guy had more ghetto in him than the other three. He’d been taken in by them after his mother and sister were shot a few years ago. You couldn’t help loving Little B. He was like that stranded puppy you couldn’t leave on the side of the street.
Pretty Boy jumped in the passenger seat of the van while he watched Kriminal remove the plastic cover on the steering column and then start hot-wiring the vehicle. The clock was ticking. They needed to get out of here fast. Pure, one hundred percent adrenaline rushed through every bit of him. This felt different from the times he’d just watched. Even watched the shootings. This time he was part of it. This could get him jail time.
And the reason there’s the reason for this and that’s the deadly slope we’re headin’ down.
Soon the van rumbled to a laugh, yet they didn’t drive off. Pretty Boy sat, waiting to feel the van moving. So why weren’t they going? What was Kriminal’s hesitation?
A figure approached the van on the driver’s side. Pretty Boy looked out the front windshield to see a small car waiting with its headlights on at the intersection. The car wasn’t moving, even though the light above him was green. The big black guy approaching them didn’t seem a bit apprehensive about coming close to the van.
The idiot was carrying a giant cross, too.
That guy’s gonna get popped.
Kriminal cursed in disbelief and stared at the guy. The voice that spoke through the window Kriminal had busted open was loud and booming and deep.
“What you’re doin’ is wrong,” the stranger said.
Come on K let’s just get out of here let’s go now.
But right on cue, Kriminal took out his 9mm semi and pointed it at crossman’s face. Close enough so the muzzle touched the man’s forehead.
Kriminal had once told him that he liked a 9mm because it held seventeen shots over a typical revolver, which only held six. But at this close range, it would only take one single, simple shot.
“Back on up, Old Creepy. Unless you want your time card punched.”
I’m not ready for murder it was just supposed to be stealing a car a van a worthless van nobody’s gonna make a big fuss about but not murder not this K.
The killing didn’t scare him. It was the aftermath.
The big guy with the gun aimed at his skull smiled. Pretty Boy couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The guy was actually smiling.
“I’m ready,” the stranger said. “Are you?”
Pretty Boy waited to hear the gunshot. He’d heard enough in his life, but didn’t want to hear this one. Kriminal had told him stories, but Pretty Boy didn’t want to see it with his own eyes. He could imagine the short, blunt strike. One was all it would take. This close there was no debate. No chance.
Don’t do it don’t do it come on.
The gun didn’t go off. For some reason, Kriminal was being nice.
Bet he would’ve done it if it was the Adidas Boys.
Crossman didn’t change his expression or his stance. He just kept looking at Kriminal without blinking.
“You know what I’m gonna do?” the stranger said.
“Why don’t you tell me?” Kriminal asked.
Pretty Boy could tell his brother sounded amused now. So did the two chuckling in the backseat.
“I’m gonna pray for you. All of you.”
More cackles could be heard.
“Yeah, you do that, old fool.”
Kriminal pulled his hand back into the van and revved up the engine.
“That’s right, I’m a fool,” the man outside said. “A fool for Christ. Paul and me. Me and Paul. Nothin’ but fools. Ain’t no hole gonna swallow me . . .”
The van peeled away before they could hear any more jibberish from the man on the street. Pretty Boy assumed he was some crazy, homeless person. They always turned out crazy once they’d been on the streets for too long. They began to see things. The drugs and alcohol usually turned them into fools. Yet Pretty Boy had never seen one carrying a cross.
Or so unafraid of dying.
The van headed south toward their neighborhood. The mood continued to lighten with the guys in the backseat cursing and laughing at the crazy guy they had just seen.
“Was that old dude ‘730’ or what?” 40 Ounce barked out through the laughter.
They were excited that it’d gone so easily. Grabbing this van was nothing. Nothing at all.
But what comes next hey K?
Kriminal kept his focus on the driving while Pretty Boy ignored the grade school levity in the back.
“What was that thing he was carryin’ around anyway?” Little B asked.
“A cross, you fool,” 40 Ounce said.
“Thing looked heavy.”
“Thing looked stolen,” 40 Ounce cracked again. “Probably got it from a church. They’ll show up Sunday and find it gone. Fool’ll be roamin’ round preachin’ on the side of the road.”
Pretty Boy looked in the mirror, but nobody was chasing them. Nobody would, either. This was a simple job that they were out there to do. And yet that man. In a second—if Kriminal had made a different choice—it would have all been different. Kriminal could’ve been in a bad mood. He could’ve gotten all riled up like he sometimes did.
The streets they passed felt deserted and alone as Pretty Boy stared down them.
“You awful quiet,” Kriminal said. “What’re you thinking?”
His big brother was always there. Sometimes looking out for him, sometimes showing tough love, sometimes beating the tar out of him. He was afraid of Kriminal but at the same time didn’t know another soul he was closer to.
Owin’ my life to same old story plunged through the knife . . .
He didn’t worry about his brother’s question. Not now that the rush inside him was wearing off. Pretty Boy felt a wave of both relief and dread filling him.
“That man was ready to die,” he told Kriminal. “You look at his face—his eyes? What if he was right? You know? What if we’re going up against God Himself?”
The words amused Kriminal. He was in good spirits tonight. He smiled.
“You tellin’ me God works for Nefarius?” Kriminal joked.
The others laughed. But Pretty Boy only shook his head, still thinking about the guy’s expression. Fearless. Bold. Uncompromising.
He didn’t look crazy, even though his actions certainly seemed like it.
“Forget it,” he said without looking back at his brother. He felt a sinking feeling and wasn’t sure where it came from.
It wasn’t from stealing this van. It was more. A fear inside that something was out of control. That this road he was heading down with these guys was all wrong and that eventually he’d end up floating and breathless in the belly of the dark lake not far from them.
He wanted—no he needed—to get out of there. His songs were gonna do it, too. The music scene in Chiraq was real and the drill music kept coming and everybody told him he could do it.
Everybody but Kriminal.
Pretty Boy thought of his mother for some reason. Then of his grandmother.
You know why.
He wanted to erase the thoughts and the memories, but the crossman back there had brought them back. His mother with her demons and his grandmother with her cross and her Bible verses and her God.
Her God.
It was a fairy tale, but he could still remember the words G-Ma loved to say. Before all hell broke loose and they were left alone.
Like the sidewalks and the streets and the shadows they passed. All alone.
Only one road goin’ no lookin’ back showin’ Pretty Boy stacks blowin’ yellow brick roadin’.
Yeah.
He stared ahead and kept the thoughts tied up.
No lookin’ back.
Amen to that.