The state prison was an entirely different world. It was a place with its own codes, its own rules, its own laws and condition. It was a world unto itself. It was a place where the slightest sign of disrespect, whether real or imagined, could cost a person his life.
The rules were that you took nothing, and you expected nothing in return. It was a place where all a man had was his word, and he didn’t break that word for shit. His word was his bond.
Another unwritten rule in prison was that you stuck with your own. Prison was divided not only along racial lines—blacks stuck with blacks, and whites with whites—but along geographical lines. Columbus stuck with Columbus, Cleveland with Cleveland, Dayton with Dayton, and Cincinnati with Cincinnati. You stuck with your city, and you represented your city. All the hoods and crews within the city came together and got down for one another. There were no hoods in the state joint, just cities and towns.
“What up, family?” Pee Wee said, greeting Chino and some other Columbus cats. “What it do?”
Chino and Pee Wee exchanged handshakes. “It do what it do, baby!”
“Little Chino, we balling tonight?” Pee Wee asked.
“Hell yeah!” Chino told him.
Pee Wee was a habitual. He had been in and out of the joint his entire life. He caught his first beef killing his stepfather in his sleep after he had beat his mother. The juvenile prosecutor had it in for Pee Wee and made sure that he did time for the murder. He’d never been out of prison for more than two years since that first conviction.
Pee Wee was prison built. He was six foot four, two hundred and eighty pounds of muscle. He looked as if he were a bodybuilder, straight off the cover of MuscleMag. His bald head and the hoop ring in his nose made him look like an evil bull. The jail guards avoided him and so did everyone else. He had killed more than three men with his bare hands. He was a trustee within the system, so he was allowed to reside in lower-security prisons.
Little Dice, another Columbus resident, put his arm around Chino. “Pee Wee ass can’t ball! This nigga is just going to go up to the rec yard and jack rec. Old brick-shooting ass nigga!”
The Columbus boys broke into laughter.
“Who we playing tonight?” Chino asked.
“We got them Dayton boys tonight,” Little Dice told him, “and if we win tonight, we play Cincinnati for the championship.”
Chino high-fived Black, Pee Wee, and Little Dice.
Black was another prison-built cat that looked like he could be on the cover of Muscle and Fitness. He was doing a stretch for armed robbery. The fool had robbed a jewelry store and got caught when the automatic door closed and locked. The jewelry store workers locked themselves in the rear of the store and simply waited for the police to arrive. Black was showcased on the news as one of America’s stupidest criminals. The fellas on the yard teased him about it all the time.
Little Dice was a street hustler that was down for yayo. He had gotten caught up with five keys and a trunk filled with weapons. The state gave him thirty and the feds gave him five on top of that. So when he left the state, he would have to go and see the feds. It was fucked up that they ran his time consecutive instead of concurrent. He swore that his lawyer sold him out and copped a deal with the feds so that one of his rich white clients could go free. It was the system, Little Dice often claimed. It was stacked against black folks and designed so that the white man would always win.
Chino and his Columbus partners made their way through the long, winding chow line toward the serving bar, where other prisoners would slop the day’s meal onto their trays.
“I guess this shit is supposed to be spaghetti,” Little Dice told them.
“Spaghetti surprise,” Black added. “I know this ain’t supposed to be hamburger meat.”
“It looks like ground-up hot dogs,” Chino said, staring at the slop.
“Y’all don’t want it, pass it to old Pee Wee,” he told them.
“Aw, nigga, your big hungry ass will eat anything!” Little Dice told him.
“You can have this shit,” Black told Pee Wee. “You got some chips and a candy bar in your locker? Shit, a nigga gotta eat something.”
“All right,” Pee Wee said smiling. “I’ll give you a candy bar, but you know what that means?”
“Aw, fuck you, nigga!” Black told him.
The rest of the fellas broke into laughter.
“Them candy bars is bait so I can trap my girls,” Pee Wee told him, laughing while grabbing his dick.
“Fuck you, you Darth Vader head muthafucker!” Black shouted.
The crew was so busy laughing that none of them paid any attention to a Dayton cat creeping from around the serving bar. When Chino got to the corner of the bar and turned to get his drink, the Dayton cat stepped from around the metal serving station with a twelve-inch shank. Chino saw him just in time and jumped out of the way, while dashing his drink in the attacker’s eyes. The blade caught Pee Wee in his side.
“YBI, muthafucka!” the attacker shouted. “Get yo hand outta our pocket, nigga!”
Pee Wee fell back, Black caught him and lowered him to the ground.
Chino swung his tray at the attacker, striking him in his nose. Blood splattered everywhere. The attacker charged at Chino full steam.
Chino swung his tray again, striking the attacking YBI member in his throat, but the attacker’s forward motion sent the knife plunging into Chino’s left forearm.
“Got dammit!” Chino screamed.
The attacker yanked his knife out and turned, grabbing his throat. He was coughing severely. Chino grabbed his bloody forearm. Little Dice shoved Chino out of the way and kicked the attacker in his ass, sending him flying into another serving bar headfirst.
A crowd started to gather.
“Dayton!” somebody shouted. All of Dayton’s prisoners raced to the front where the action was.
Columbus cats recognized Chino and Little Dice and muscled their way to the front. Dayton and Columbus stood opposite one another about to square off.
“What the fuck’s happening here?” the Dayton shot-caller asked.
“This nigga shouted YBI and tried to stick my nigga!” Little Dice shouted.
“He stuck Pee Wee!” Black said to the Columbus boys.
The Columbus shot-caller looked at the Dayton shot caller. “Your boy representing YBI came at my dudes.”
The Dayton shot-caller turned to his people. “Ain’t no city thing.” He nodded toward the attacker. “Mop his ass up for starting shit. I done told his ass. He either gonna roll with Dayton or not at all. Ain’t no fucking cliques in here!”
A shot rang out.
“Everybody on the floor!” a guard holding a shotgun shouted. “Grab some dirt, cocksuckers!” He fired into the air again. Soon he was joined by other guards on the tier with M-16 rifles, while even more guards with long batons strolled into the cafeteria. The prisoners all hit the floor.
Lying on the floor, Chino shook his head. That shit was still following him. YBI must have put a hit out on him. Two of them cats in the New Yorker had gotten killed that day in the park, and they must be blaming it on him. But most of all, they were really mad about him doing business in their territory. Old boy shouted for him to get his hand out of their pocket, not that this was for his homeboys. This told him one really important thing—YBI was after his ass, and he would have to deal with them for the foreseeable future. Getting out of Columbus was now a priority. Getting out of prison and getting back to Pooh was a must. They would go after her too, just to get to him. They had no fucking morals or scruples. They were just cold-blooded dope boys and killers. And now they would have to send a message.
Chino glared across the room and watched as his attacker spit blood out of his mouth and continued coughing nonstop. Chino had hit him in the throat as hard as he could with the sharp edge of the tray. The guards were frantically working on him.
“Die, muthafucker, die!” Chino said under his breath. It would be one less muthafucka he would have to worry about.