IBO - Brian R. Lundin (100 books to read in a lifetime .txt) 📗

pushed onto the back burner. Murder, rape and robberies are permitted with the gang’s approval. Once a State Street Boy always a State Street Boy and you are affiliated for life. There, are three unfavorable options for exiting the gang: one is killed; two desertion, which meant essentially, forfeiting his life and perhaps his family’s life if seen by any gang member and three going to jail.
Respect is very important to the gang member not only for himself but also for the gang and their turf. Any disrespect or “Dis,” real or perceived, required immediate reprisal. With us no challenge goes unanswered. Many times, drive-by shootings and other acts of violence followed events perceived as a dis.

“Pops wants to see you.”
James “Pops” Williams was born into the gang his father Walter Williams was the first cousin of Johnny Roberts who had started the gang but was now serving a life sentence in a federal prison for drug violations. Walter was known as the gang’s Head Governor, the unofficially leader of the gang because Robert’s was still the official leader. When Walter was killed Pops became the Head Governor. The State Street Boys controlled all gang activities in the Chicago Housing Authority developments on the South Side of the city and the Simbas were Walter’s bodyguards. James “Pops” Williams was the first-born son of Walter Williams and at an early age Pops was indoctrinated in the gang culture; he was tattooed with the gang symbol the six pointed star, taught how to mix the drugs and keep records of the drug transactions.
When he was 17, he was accompanying his father, Cinque and three other Simbas to one of his father’s drug spots. Walter had between 15 drug dealers working the street and each dealer could have between $15 to $20K in drug money, a tempting target for stickup men. Twice a day Walter visited his dealers and collected their money. Later he would send one of the Peewees to the corner with more drugs. Walter never carried any drugs, just money making him a tempting target for stick-up men.
The Simba drove the SUV slowly and carefully down the dark streets, obeying all the traffic signals to avoid any stops by the police. As they approached the drug spot operated by one of the gang members named Bo, to pick-up the evening collection the three other Simbas began getting their automatic weapons out of guitar cases. Cinque unwrapped the bow and a quiver containing ten arrows from an oilskin wrap and slung the quiver over his shoulder, he strapped on the belt carrying his big knife and he placed two skinning knives in his boots, one in each. Cinque completed his preparations by strapping the cilice on his wrist. The cilice was useful in blocking blows and attacking. The streets were dark and quiet. The only sound coming from the few cars and buses racing down State Street. Cinque got an uneasy feeling and quickly motioned to the driver to let him out, about a half block from the spot. Cinque silently sprinted towards the spot, staying close to the buildings. When the vehicle turned off 43rd Street and entered Federal Street they didn’t noticed a black Ford van parked in the parking lot with its lights off but the motor running, but Cinque did.
The Simba parked the car in the parking lot three aisles down from the black van and turned his headlights out. Bo approached Walter, who always sat in the right rear seat.
”What’s up Bo?” Pops asked.
“I’m cool,” Bo responded nervously, looking at the black van.
Bo was the same age as Pops and he and his three older brothers and two younger sisters lived in the apartment next to Pops family and like most of the young people living in Robert Taylor Homes never knew his father. Bo, a big young man, with a broad chest and a muscular built was slightly retarded because of his mother’s addiction to crack when he was born. He was very friendly and always had a big smile on his face and loved to tell corny jokes. Bo and Pops had been Pee-wee’s together and Bo had been allowed to join the gang because of Pops.
Two of the Simbas armed with automatic weapons got out the vehicle and looked around as another opened the door for Walter. As Pops and Walter were getting out the vehicle, the side door of the black van slide opened and five hooded men jumped out, ran towards the SUV they were all carrying weapons.
“Ambush,” Cinque yelled, his bow already stretched taunt with an arrow.
Cinque always marveled at the quiet, deadly twang of the bowstring as he released the arrow. The arrow found its mark and one of the ambusher silently fell to the ground holding his neck and feeling the shaft of the long black arrow, which had entered the right side of his neck and came out the left side. Another ambusher had noticed Cinque and ran towards him, trying to cock his weapon, which had jammed. Cinque smiled a toothless smile as the ambusher tried to use his rifle as a club, Cinque easily dodged the attacking man and as he stumbled past, Cinque expertly hit the man in his mouth with the cilice, the man gagged on blood and teeth as he fell back against the wall dropping his weapon. Cinque hit him again on the right temple with the cilice, spinning his head to the left. The man stopped gagging and slid to the ground unconscious; leaning against the wall, blood pooling from his mouth and head.
The other Simbas pulled Pops back into the SUV as Walter shouted, “Motherfuckas, motherfuckas, as the three other ambushers open fire. A bullet entered over the right eye of the Simba driver its point came out the rear. Brain matter, blood, hair and skin exploded over Pops, seated next to him. Gunfire from the other ambushers killed the other Simbas.
Cinque let loose another arrow; he heard a soft thud and then the loud clatter of a rifle as it hit the ground. Cinque slowly but cautiously walked over and looked down at the young man who was still alive but the arrow was deeply embedded in his rib cage and his breathing was labored.
“Fuck you, you black muthahfucka,” the man whispered.
Cinque smiled at him as he pushed the arrow further into the man body before pulling it out and wiping it off on his now nearly lifeless bodying, the dying man let out a long sigh and became silent. Pops stumbled out the car, grabbed one of the Samba’s Mac 10 automatic pistols, and began firing. He shot one of the ambushers with a burst of bullets from his weapon, the man stumbled backwards and fell, and blood was flowing out of the three wounds in his chest. The remaining ambusher was jumped into the van and sped off. Cinque had grabbed the ambusher who had rushed him and pulled him to his feet; he had his big knife out and was all set to cut his throat when Walter yelled,
”Save one,” Walter called out weakly, but before he could finish, he fell.
Cinque and Pops pulled Walter and the dead Simbas into the SUV as the other Simbas pushed the unconscious ambusher in.
Pops in the driver’s seat cradled his father in his arms as tears started to fall. He looked down at his father face and saw the bubbles in the froth of blood in his mouth; his eyes were still open but were losing their moisture as they moving around as if looking for something or someone. His mouth started to move and he said something, but Pops could not hear what he said. Pops leaned closer and turned his ear to his father’s mouth.
“I’m cold son,” Walter said in a whisper.
Pops pulled his father’s coat snug against him.
“Hang on dad, we’re going get you taken care of,” Pops said
Desperately as he put the vehicle into gear, “We’re going to get you to the hospital, hang-on.
Before the vehicle started to move Walter began to cough, a deep wet cough as his chest started to fill with blood. Pops put the SUV in neutral and him and Cinque looked down at Walter whose face was getting very pale and going slack. Walter tried to say something else but he could not and his eyes lost their focus, Cinque and Pops watched as Walter died.
“Where’s Bo?” Pops asked.
“Last time I saw him he was duckin’ behind some cars,” one of the Simba replied.
“Find him.”
Cinque and the other Simbas found Bo his hiding under one of the cars and pulled him out and Cinque collected his arrows. The arrows could contain evidence and he knew that good arrows were nearly impossible to make and expensive to buy.
Afterward the group went to a vacant apartment that the gang used. The word had gotten out about the ambush and other gang members and Simba joined them. The Simbas tied the ambusher to a chair and Bo was standing next to Pops.
“Who ordered the hit motherfucka,” Pops asked smacking the ambusher in the face.
“Esau, the new governor of the 43rd Street Cobra that’s all I know Pops,” the ambusher said crying with blood coming from his nose. Honestly, I don’t know, we were paid $500.00 up front and were supposed to get another five after the hit.”
“How did you’ll know what time we would be there?” Cinque asked after smacking the ambusher.”
The ambusher looked at Bo.
Turning towards Bo, Cinque asked,” You involved in this bullshit?”
“Naw man, naw, I ain’t involved,” Bo said sweating.
“Tie that motherfucka up too,” Pops ordered, “we’re goin’ to get to the end of this bullshit.”
The other Simbas roughly grabbed Bo and tied him to another chair.
“Get Mr. Do Right ready, we’re going to straighten this shit out and I’m going to find out who ordered the hit on my pops, its ass-kicking time and like he always told me, “It’s easier to kick someone’s ass if you’re standing behind them,” Pops said as he moved behind Bo.
“Mr. Do Right,” was an electrical cattle prod used in stockyards to move the animals to the killing floor. It looked like a paddle, made of wood but wrapped with electrical cables and on one side inscribed in big capital letters, “THIS WILL HELP YOU TO REMEMBER TO DO THE RIGHT THING.”
“Mr. Do Right,” could cause death by stopping the heart if applied too long, but it was mainly used to discipline wayward gang members who had violated a minor gang rules, but no one was ever killed.
“Take their clothes off,” Cinque ordered.
The Simbas stripped Bo and the ambusher naked. Another Simba returned with “Mr. Do Right,” and plugged it into an outlet.
Cinque poured water over Bo and the ambusher.
“Makes Mr. Do Right work better,” he said smiling showing a mouth full of gums.
“Mr. Do Right, Mr. Do Right,” the other Simbas yelled.
Pops took “Mr. Do Right,” from the Simba and slightly touched the ambusher and Bo on their testicle; they both let out a bloodcurdling scream.
He then