It was in Los Angeles County Jail that I learned that Americans have a thing for attacking our private parts during a scuffle. Every incident I’ve been involved in or witnessed, the private parts of the beatee would be viciously attacked without missing a beat, as if some personal grudge existed between them and our dicks. Later on I learned that it did. We nursed Levi back to health and began to avoid direct confrontations with the deputies. We’d fuck them in other ways.
Charlie row had coalesced the strong into a united front and violently purged the weak. Able row, which was now Cyco Mike’s territory, was also being formed into a front; however, he worked through force and violence. Most of those with him felt physically intimidated by his size and prowess. Our unity on Charlie row came as a result of a common enemy: Cyco Mike. He had little idea that we were plotting his overthrow. We were taken to the roof thrice weekly and allowed to lift weights. Both tiers went together, so we on Charlie row feigned affection for Mike in his presence and continued to prepare for his destruction in private.
Mike had, at one time or another in the course of his climb to the top, talked bad to, beat up on, or taken something from almost everyone there. What’s striking here is that when our generation picked up the gun, we began to use our hands less and less, so more than a few gunfighters amongst us had no ability to down Mike physically. Most folks talked behind Mike’s back. When we said anything about him it was in questioning his strong and weak points, who would really go down with him on Able row, and who were just hostages.
I myself was only beginning to gain my weight back. I trained with the weights like a mad Russian. The second operation had really set me back, and since I was only out of the hospital three days before being captured, I hadn’t had the proper nutrients to supplement my diet to stimulate growth. I had to suffice with jail food—ugh! Nothing was less healthful.
The Los Angeles County juvenile tank was not all humdrum, tension, and war. We had some good times as a captured family, making light of our dismal situation. Next to 3100—the module we were housed in—was 3300. On Able and Charlie rows of module 3300 there were queens and a few studs. On Baker and Denver rows were snitches classified as K-9s. The queens used to shine our shoes, braid our hair, and, if one wished, do a few other things. We had never seen queens and were awestruck by them, just as much as they were with being so close to throbbing, young, naive juveniles. One afternoon, Chicken Swoop from Long Beach Insane persuaded a queen named Silky to come over to our tier gate. Once Silky had come close enough to our gate, High Tower and Wino from Grape Street Watts grabbed him and wrestled him to the ground. They subdued him and hustled him down the tier to an open cell. After having their way with Silky, who had long ago ceased to resist, they let him go. With the excitement seemingly over for the day, we all fell into a somber sleep. But late in the night we were awakened by Chicken Swoop’s loud screaming.
“Ahh! Ahhh!”
“What’s wrong, cuz?”
“Ahh! Ahhh!”
“Who is that?” a disgruntled voice asked.
“Cuz, that’s Swoop. Somethin’ wrong wit’ him,” someone answered.
“I wish he’d shut the fuck up,” said yet another voice, through the cold and darkness.
“What’s wrong, Swoop?” asked Green Eyes from Venice Sho-Line.
“Cuz,” Swoop began, “my dick is green.”
“Yo’ what?”
“My dick, muthafucka, my dick!”
And just then from down on the other end of the tier came another scream.
“Ahhh!”
“Who is that?” someone asked.
“Aw, shit!” High Tower stammered. “My dick green, too!”
The whole tank was awake now and out came the comedians. No one got any more sleep that night. We stayed up and clowned all night and into the next afternoon, right up until the medical crew came and hauled Swoop, High Tower, and Wino out of there. Later that afternoon a lieutenant came and gave us a sex talk about men who have somehow been twisted into thinking they are women and that we were all queers. He ended his sermon by calling us the sickest youngsters he had met in a while.
Light moments such as this tended to ease some of the stress that we were under. Once eight or nine of us were in a cell just telling war stories and joking around when someone claimed he could ejaculate faster than anyone else in the cell. Well, this was cause for a showdown. Within seconds everyone had their dick in their hand and was pumpin’ away. The self-proclaimed champ did not blow off first and was clowned as just wanting to see our dicks. We threatened to urinate on him.
Our rule was simple: the sets that were there first and remained firm were “in,” This meant that any set that came in that any of the “in” sets didn’t get along with, no set got along with. They had to go—violently. This was even true of the Chicano sets.
When I was shipped to County, Li’l Monster was still in the Hall. Shyster was basically running the Rollin’ Sixties in Central, and I thought he might try to do something to my li’l brother to get some points. Li’l Monster was in there for killing Shyster’s homies, and Shyster was there for killing one of our homies. Since Shyster was being tried as an adult, he faced the very real possibility of coming to the juvenile tank. So I wrote him a letter saying basically that should one finger be laid on Li’l Monster in my absence it would be brought to bear on him when he arrived at County. I told him of our structure there and for authenticity I had everyone sign it. Li’l Monster went unmolested his entire stay.
In early March one of Popa and Perry’s homies from Harlem Thirties was killed by some Brims at Manuel Arts High School. True to tradition, the alleged killers were tried as adults and rushed to the juvenile tank. They went directly to Baker and Denver rows P.C. We plotted and planned on a way to get over to their cell and kill them. In April our chance came. Ironically, Popa, Perry, Insane, myself, and both the Brims were taken to court together. We knew that as juveniles we’d all be put in the same court holding cell and then, as planned, we’d beat the two Bloods to death. The juveniles who were being tried as adults but kept in the Hall were also to be housed in this same holding cell awaiting court.
Our shackles were removed, and we filed into the cell on the basement floor of the Criminal Courts building in downtown Los Angeles. The county jail juveniles always arrived approximately thirty minutes before those from the Hall, so even though we were all in the small cell, we didn’t pounce on the two Bloods, who by now knew we were getting ready to jump. We wanted to wait until the others arrived, so no one would be coming by for at least two more hours. When the door opened for the others from the Hall to enter, I was removing the braids from my hair. If the t Bloods were going to make a dash for it, now was the time. We expected them to, but not a quip was heard from either. This meant one of two things: the Bloods were not afraid of us, as we had anticipated and surely had always believed, or they were naive enough to think that we were not going to smash them. I was relieved that they had not gone to the soldier-cops. I guess I felt a bit of respect for them, as well, because to stay in a ten-by- twenty-foot cell with four members of the opposition who had been charged with killing took a certain amount of courage. I also felt sorry for them. The ignorant bastards had no idea of how we planned to mistreat them.
Two juveniles from Central entered the tank. Both were New Afrikans and both were Rollin’ Sixties. I didn’t know either by face, nor did they recognize me. Popa eased over to me and whispered that the light-complexioned one was T-Bone. The other one he just knew as one of their homies. T-Bone’s name carried a little weight in his ’hood. A second-level member who had shot a few people, he had recently been shot five times by the Black P. Stone Bloods. He had a slight build, short hair, and a fixed frown. When his eyes swept the cell they telegraphed contempt. He wore a black hair net down over his forehead like a sweater cap. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a half-smoked cigarette, fumbled in his other pocket, and retrieved a match. He struck the match on the concrete floor, lit his cigarette, and sat back coolly on the bench. His homie stood across from him near the entrance. Because I didn’t know who he was, I worried little about him. I walked over to T-Bone, who was concentrating on his hard-core stare, and stood before him. I had completely forgotten about the Bloods.
“Where you from?” I asked, already knowing but wanting to hear him say it.
“Rollin’ Sixties,” he responded proudly.
“Get up, homeboy. We gotta get ’em up.”
“Fo’ what?” he asked, visibly disturbed.
“ ’Cause I’m Monster Kody from Gangsta.”
“Wait, man, hold it. We ain’t even gotta trip that.”
