blows rained in rapid-fire succession from his navel to his neck. When he fell to the ground, Monk proceeded to stomp and kick him all over—except, with any real intent, in the groin area—until his eyes rolled back in his head and he flopped around on the floor like a fish.
Bingo had long ceased any movement. Feeling somehow left out, I called Tangle-Eye over and slapped him up. Not to be outdone by Monk, I called for a cup. But I couldn’t urinate, so I handed it to Taco, who quickly filled it up. No one said a word as I handed the urine-filled cup to Tangle-Eye.
“Drink it,” I told him, “or come to the back and prepare for battle.”
Tangle-Eye was looking around for Cyco Mike, who had gone to see a visitor. He then looked to Green Eyes for a reprieve.
“Hey, Green, you know I ain’t no Sixty no mo’. You gonna let cuz do me like this?”
“Monster,” Green Eyes began, “you know cuz claimin’ Main Street now—”
“This muthafucka ain’t from no Main Street! You know it and I know it.”
And then, looking at Tangle-Eye, I held up both fists and repeated, “Now drink it, punk, or get these dogs put on yo’ ass.”
“You know you gonna have to answer to Mike when he get back,” Green Eyes said.
“Drink it!” I said loudly, ignoring Green. And then as an afterthought I said, “Mike don’t pump no fear here,” slapping myself over the heart. “Just’cause he got y’all scared ’round here don’t mean I’m gon’ be scared, too.”
The dayroom was deathly quiet. The line had been crossed, my plan prematurely hatched.
“Muthafucka, what did I tell you?”
At that, Tangle-Eye tipped the cup and swallowed the urine. I slapped him anyway for being such a coward.
When the soldier-cops came to the dayroom door to let Cyco Mike back in, they saw Bingo and Weeble Wobble lying in pools of blood and called a 415—a distress call. Within minutes the dayroom was swarming with vile soldier-cops slinging threats and profanities around at random. We each were made to strip for examination by a sergeant, who looked for scratches, blood, welts, or abrasions that would suggest we had somehow been involved in the beat-down. Monk was the only one taken to the hole.
After the examination we were locked back into our cages. I heard Green Eyes sending Cyco Mike a briefing on what had happened with Tangle-Eye. But Mike said nothing to me.
Later that night I heard Cyco Mike order Li’l Fella from Five Tray to give up his breakfast in the morning. Li’l Fella, a small cat who weighed at least fifty pounds less than Cyco Mike, gave no response to this. It became apparent to me what was taking place. Cyco Mike knew he could not give Tangle-Eye full immunity under Main Street’s jurisprudence for two reasons: Tangle-Eye had not joined willfully and with the required passage of the universal litmus test, and he had smut on him from not putting up a struggle for his props. This type of coverage only served to make Main Street look soft, as if anyone could join. Cyco Mike knew that I knew all of this. He also knew that he could not bring my latest act of aggression on Tangle-Eye to me without making himself look stupid. So he was using an indirect route to draw me out. All Trays—Four Trays, Five Trays, Seven Trays, and Eight Trays —are natural allies, just as the Neighborhoods are. So by publicly taking Li’l Fella’s breakfast he was actually sending a message to me.
I weighed the consequences of what I was about to do. How many troops did he have down there? There was Green Eyes, Cisco, Warlock, Killer Rob, Handbone, and Chicken Swoop—who was recently back from the clinic. He could also count Tangle-Eye on his side. I had Moman, Oldman, Taco, Poopay, High-Tower, Dirt, Mud, Bennose, Levi, Popa, and Perry. It’s not quantity but quality that counts in such situations. We had a crew of quality soldiers who, quite frankly, up until my arrival, had lacked the proper leadership. To say I alone filled that vacuum would negate the role of all the others in forging our united front. We all, at different times, functioned in the seat of leadership. But I was the primary driver. Though I was nowhere near the physical condition I wanted and needed to be in, I had to respond to Mike. He knew what he was doing and I knew—that was enough. But before I could respond to him directly, I had to try to rile up some resistance in Li’l Fella. Although he had little chance against Mike, he could at least stand his ground.
“Hey, Li’l Fella, what you do, give cuz yo’ breakfast or what?”
“Naw, homie, but fuck that breakfast.”
“Yeah, but Trays don’t do it like that,” I told him. “If you ain’t gonna eat it, throw it away.”
Before Li’l Fella responded Mike spoke up.
“Monster, what tier you on?”
“Charlie row.”
“Well, keep yo’ ass up there. Don’t worry ’bout what go on down here.”
“I could give less than a fat rat’s ass ’bout Able row. My concern is with my li’l homie,” I said matter-of- factly.
“Yeah, well he live down here.”
“You too big to be bullying on cuz anyhow.”
“Who the fuck you think you is anyway?” Mike asked accusingly. “Coming here, thinking you that muthafucka somethin’. You too new here to be woofin’ that shit, Monster.”
“Nigga, fuck you!”
“FUCK YOU!” Mike shot back.
“So what’s up then?”
“In the a.m., muthafucka, let the gates be the bell.”
And that was it.
The silence weighed a hundred tons. It seemed that I could hardly move or breathe under it. I wanted to make small talk with Ben, but decided against it in fear of my voice cracking, showing strain, stress, and, honestly, fear. Fear not necessarily of Cyco Mike, but of possibly losing the fight. What then? Was I supposed to live with it? That just wasn’t my style.
I remember before I went to camp in ’79 my older brother, Kerwin, used to put hands on me. He’d feel quite content with bopping me around for any small infraction. But he didn’t realize the radical transformations I was going through while in jail, where ass whippings just weren’t tolerated by anyone. So when I was released and had committed my first infraction—something like failing to clean the bathroom—he went to pounce on me, and I quickly drew my strap and explained to him that those days were over. If he had any further notions of putting hands on me, he’d have to tangle with my gun. He nodded his comprehension and walked out of the room in somewhat of a trance. He hasn’t touched me since.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have a strap now. I did, however, have my fighting skill. I lay there and went over some moves I could pull, trying to plan, which was ridiculous. How can one plan a fistfight? It’s not like the combatants have the same choreographer. And it was clear this wasn’t going to be a clean fight. This would be a stomp-down, drag-out brawl for the duration of wind, punches, and stamina. It had come to this, though prematurely, but in a way I was glad it was finally going to be on and over. Something had to break the tension. The situation had come to a head, and a new round of relations were about to be set in motion. I fell asleep with my mind full of these thoughts.
The following day, nothing happened. The next day, I observed Cyco Mike in the dayroom having war counsel with his troops. I saw Green Eyes wrap Mike’s hand in blue flags and help him take down his jumpsuit, so I had Taco tie my hands up with flags and I took my jumpsuit down, too. Taco and I remained seated on the table in front of the old black-and-white television. Both sets of troops were fanned out about the day-room eyeing each other skeptically. The tension was very, very thick. Cyco Mike and Green Eyes began to walk toward Taco and me, so we stood up. Mike spoke first.
“Woof that shit
“I ain’t no tape recorder. You heard what I said.”
We both were in strike-first positions, almost toe to toe.
“Fuck that, fool, we gotta get down,” Mike declared, and went to step out of his shoes.
“I thought you knew,” I said, and didn’t let him get to the other shoe. Like lightning I was on him, hitting everywhere at once. My speed, fueled by great bursts of adrenaline, was surprising—even to me. When I stopped swinging he was down on all fours.
“Aw, you gonna try to hit me when I’m takin’ my shoes off, huh?”
