In these times, many disappeared from the Crip Module. One afternoon we were all told to gather up our personal property and go into the huge communal showers. No one had any idea of what was taking place. We all crowded into the showers with our meager property. We waited for hours to find out our fate. Looking around at one another, at friends we had met while in this shark tank, at enemies we had forgiven in the light of a new “enemy”—the East Side—we felt like a family being torn asunder. Eventually, a pig came in with our JRC cards and began to call off names.
“Scott?” the pig shouted into the shower.
“Yeah,” I replied, wondering why I was being called first. “What’cha call me fo’ man, I ain’t—”
“Shut up. You are going to Charlie-10. Get your shit and move, now!” shouted the little pink-faced pig, who weighed no more than 150 pounds. I would have slapped the shit out of any other American for talking to me like that, but this scrawny little pig had the armed forces on his side.
I gathered up my property and moved down the tier to C-IO. This didn’t make much sense to me, because I was in C-8 before they rolled us up into the shower. It felt strange to walk past cell after empty cell, striped bare to the concrete and steel. I felt like the only Crip on earth. I got to the cell, it was electronically opened and I stepped in.
“Davis?” I heard the little pig say.
“Yeah, here.” That was Fat Rat from Five-Deuce Hoover.
“Charlie-10.”
Shit, that was my cell. Now I was tripping on what these pigs had in mind. Fat Rat came down the tier, laboring heavily under his crushing weight. Fat Rat was huge, with muscular arms and chest and a fat belly that, coupled with his dark complexion, made him resemble a potbellied stove. He and I were friends from juvenile hall.
“Cuz, what they doing? I mean why they movin’ us all around?” I asked Fat Rat as he plopped down on the bunk across from mine.
“Shit, cuz, I think they fin’ to mix us up. I pity the Cheese Toast”—disrespectful for East Coast—“that come in my cell.”
“You think that’s what they up to, huh?”
“Yeah, ’cause I heard one cop tell another.”
Another name was called.
“Anderson?”
“Right here.”
“Charlie-10.”
Fat Rat and I looked at each other, and Fat Rat smiled. Anderson was B.T. from East Coast.
“I got one,” Fat Rat said as he began to make his bed.
I didn’t know B.T., but since he had come to the module I had seen him around. He stood in front of the cell and waited to be let in. B.T. was six foot one, muscular, and dark—almost like a fit Fat Rat, but taller. He had been in the dayroom when the Hoovers vamped on the Coasts, but he’d hit the wall when it jumped, claiming he was under paperwork (Crip constitution) and couldn’t participate in Crip-on-Crip violence. He was one of the two who didn’t get stabbed.
“What up, cuz?” B.T. said to me as he hoisted his bedding up on the bunk above mine.
“Ain’t nothin’, just trippin’ off these canines.”
“Yeah, these devils is on one,” he said, then turned to Fat Rat. “What up, cuz?”
“HOOVA,” shot Fat Rat in a hard-core confrontational voice, “and I’ma tell ya right now, nigga, I ain’t likin’ you or yo’ homeboys.”
“Yeah, well I ain’t on no set trips and I ain’t into no tribalism. I’m hooked up and therefore forbidden to involve myself in that. In other words, I got no beef with you, just like I ain’t got no beef with Master Kody.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s right, I’m trippin’.”
“Yo sho’ is if you think I’m goin’ fo’ that old bullshit you talkin’ ’bout, nigga. Fuck that. This is Hoova,” Fat Rat said stubbornly.
“I ain’t even trippin’ that.” And B.T. went on making up his bed. I knew that a confrontation between the two was inevitable.
I had heard about the Crip constitution, but that was the extent of my knowledge. The constitution was the latest topic on the wire. It was said that members of the organization were coming down to 4800 from San Quentin and Folsom to get things together in the Crip Nation. By this time I was moving toward that mind-set of unity. I had been living hard and could not expect to continue to do so and live or miss a life term in prison. The rumors surrounding the coming of the constitutionalists had the ring of truth to them. When people spoke of “them” or “those under paperwork,” they invariably did so with great respect. “They” seemed to us like descending angels coming to redeem the lost souls of Cripdom.
Some felt nervous. I could see it in their eyes when “they” were spoken of. Perhaps they had done wrong or feared the responsibility of having to handle some business. Some seemed relieved and eager for the constitutionalists’ arrival—those who were under everyday attack by vultures preying on setless individuals and shallow sets.
What the pigs had done was mix everyone up. As much as they could, they put one member from each set in each cell. They were now trying to force us back together after they had intentionally torn us apart, creating conditions for massive distrust and confusion.
Big Hog from 107 Hoover was a tier tender and went up and down the tiers trying to get those assigned to cells with oppositional members to refrain from any tribalistic violence. Most complied, but Fat Rat could not be deterred. He wanted to find out more about B.T.’s affiliation. He wanted to see who he was really connected to. The remaining East Coasts in the module had severed ties with B.T. because of his failure to act in their defense when they were attacked by the Hoovers. I had learned that day that the Coasts had put a “blue light”—a hit—on B.T. for his inactivity. Fat Rat knew that the Coast Car would not defend B.T., so he had little to worry about on that front.
When Big Hog came down the tier, sweeping up, Fat Rat called to him and began whispering something in his ear, no doubt about B.T.’s authenticity. Big Hog had been to the pen already and had been under the old constitution, so he’d know if B.T. was really hooked up or not. Fat Rat repeatedly insisted he was faking. After Fat Rat had spoken to Hog, with B.T. looking on in suspicion, Hog called B.T. over to the front gate. They began whispering. Fat Rat beamed as if to say “Now, the test of fire.” The conversation with B.T. hadn’t lasted but two minutes when Big Hog spoke up.
“This nigga ain’t hooked up in shit, Fat Rat, serve this nigga!”
B.T. backed up to the gate, facing us in the cell. His face said it all: coward. Fat Rat read it and moved in.
“Eh, hold on Fat Rat, cuz, I ain’t got no beef wit’ you, man.”
He knew he was doomed and was begging. Fat Rat had a reputation for being a “booty bandit” and thrived on weak men with tight asses. Poor B.T.
“Fuck that, why you lie, huh?”
POW!
Fat Rat smacked B.T. hard across the side of the head.
“Aw, cuz, I just ain’t into Crip-on-Crip, cuz, I—”
SMACK!
Another whack came down, this one across his face. The tiers grew quiet.
“Eh, Hog,” B.T. began, turning to Hog for relief, “tell Rat to stall me out, cuz.”
“I’m gonna stall you out awright.”
And with that Fat Rat grabbed B.T.’s boxer shorts by the elastic waistband and yanked them with one powerful tug. They tore right off of him. Surely, I thought, B.T. was going to mount an attack now. He
“Bitches don’t wear boxer shorts, punk, men do,” Fat Rat shouted, throwing the ripped shorts on the floor near the steel toilet.
“Aw, Rat, you trippin’, cuz,” B.T. said, but made no move that telegraphed strength.
