The pigs were furious, and word was that still more C.C.O.s were coming down from the pen. Meanwhile, word also came down that there was a rat among us. I had searched out those whom Pee Wee had told me about, but they were not in the Forty-eight Hours. Another cat’s fate was sealed when paperwork arrived—transcripts— revealing his testimony. I volunteered for the mission. The C.C.O.s wanted him stabbed, which was fine with me. Elimu, however, chose Rebo for the mission.
Later that day, in front of the nurse and everyone else, Rebo stabbed Richie Rich eight times with an ice pick. We went on immediate lockdown and O.S.S. began “interviews.” Nothing was yielded, so we stayed on lockdown. For two weeks we were given no roof time, visits, showers—nothing. On our fourteenth day we were allowed visits. Then Sam from 107 Hoover, who was under investigation by C.C.O. for collaboration with O.S.S., knocked out a trustee in the visiting room and we went back on lockdown.
But this time we protested. We were instructed by C.C.O. to tear our wristbands off and refuse to give our last three—our I.D. numbers—at count time. We threw our wristbands on the tier, and when the pig came to our cells we went mute.
“Scott, last three?” asked the pig, looking down at the count board for confirmation.
Silence.
Silence.
“Let me see your wristband.”
Silence and no movement. I just gave him a cold stare, as did my cellmates, who flanked me wearing identical stares that said We ain’t having it.
The pig started off to the next cell but never made it. An anonymous hand reached out and busted him in the head with a bar of soap. The pig dropped the count board and bolted for the grill gate.
“Monsta Kody?”
T-Ray from Nine-four Hoover had taken Rebo’s place on the initiation of the cadence.
“Yeah?”
“MONSTA KODY?”
“YEAH?”
“MACHINE IN MOTION!”
And I began the cadence, knowing that the pigs would be back. But instead of coming on the tiers they were up on the catwalk, trying to identify the caller of the cadence. They stopped in front of our cell and stared. I got louder. A minute later my gate opened.
I stepped onto the tier, never stopping the cadence. Three pigs stood at the end, beckoning me to come to them. They would not come on the tier to get me, so instead of moving toward them I went in the opposite direction, continuing the cadence until it was over. Only then did I walk to them. My cellmates hung back as I moved past cell after cell, giving and receiving dap handshakes from the troops.
When I got to Elimu’s cell he said, “Can’t forgive, won’t forget.”
“Righteous,” I replied and went on down the stairs to the red-faced pigs, who held huge flashlights.
“Unbutton that top button,” one of them demanded.
I did that, no big deal.
“Turn around…”
I turned toward my cellmates and raised both hands high in the air, displaying a clenched fist with my right hand and a “C” with the left.
“Motherfucker,” said one of the pigs, grabbing me by the back of my collar. “Didn’t you—”
BAM!
I swung on the one closest to me, hitting him square in the face. I tried to swing my body around to get to the one behind my back, but he had a death grip on me. When I charged another instead, the one behind me literally jumped up on my back, choking me as he did. Briefly I heard the troops shouting in the background.
“Cuz, they fightin’! Monster’s gettin’ ’em up wit’ ’em!”
The wrestling match was on, and we were all over the floor.
I was kicking, elbowing, scratching, jerking, and swearing, while simultaneously trying to protect my private parts. In less than a minute the cavalry arrived and I was swarmed by pigs. The only thing that saved me from being beaten to death was that there were too many pigs vying for a punch, kick, groin shot, or insult. I don’t even remember hearing “nigger,” but I’m sure it was said fifty times.
After they’d beaten the hell out of me, I was cuffed and whisked off to a holding cell. I screamed the whole way.
“CAN’T STOP, WON’T STOP, MUTHAFUCKAS! CAN’T STOP, WON’T STOP!’
I wound up in 1750 High Power, maximum security—the story of my life.
The troops tore the module up, burned their blankets and mattresses and, where possible, engaged the pigs. I was charged with conspiracy, assault, and arson, but the charges were later dismissed.
While in High Power I met Suma, the general of C.C.O. He said he had heard of me and that if I needed anything to let him know. He and Tony Stacy, another C.C.O. member, had come down from Folsom, but O.S.S. had locked them in 1750 right away. Peabody, general of the U.B.N., was there, too.
On a visit one night, Tony said that they had come down to try to hook me up. They wanted me and Insane from Playboy Gangster. I was flattered but skeptical. Once in the organization, you were in for life. He asked if I wanted to take a stand and I told him I’d think about it.
“Monsta,” he said frankly, “you’ve done too much damage to the Crip Nation. We can’t let you continue to kill our citizens. Either you hook up or you must be destroyed for the good of the C-Nation.”
I was dumbfounded. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t hear. It was practically what Crazy Keith had said after the shoot-out. Was C.C.O. also the new West Side Syndicate?
“Was that…” I started to ask, but couldn’t.
“Let me know what you decide so I can inform Suma.”
I walked back to the module in a trance.
The following day I called Big Frogg and asked him what he thought. He was under the old constitution of Blue Magic, which had been combined with Blue Machine to form the Consolidated Crip Organization—a synthesis of the two.
“No,” said Frogg angrily. “Don’t do it, homie. It ain’t for everybody.”
“What’cha mean?”
“I’ll be down there to see you tomorrow, all right? But don’t do nuthin’ till then.”
I hung up and went to my cell, confused.
The next day I went to court and missed Frogg’s visit. The following day I told Tony I was ready—that I was in. When I went to court again the following day I met Bwana from Hoover—a C.C.O. member who had also come down from the pen. He filled me in on small things. When I got back from court, the constitution was on my desk. To this day I don’t know how it got there, as Tony and Suma were clear across the module in another section.
I was trembling even before I began to read it. I had to be sure about this, but it really was do or die. Though I wasn’t actually being forced into it, I did feel a little pressured. In the end, it was my choice, and I took it. I read the constitution and afterward burned it, as instructed. I was
Late that same night a new brotha came on our tier and was put in the last cage. When Maurice from Five- Six Syndicate asked his name, he replied Salahudin Al-Muntaquin. He was a member of the Black Guerrilla Family— B.G.F.—a quasi-revolutionary organization with an awesome military machine. They had clashed with Crips several times in prison and supposedly had killed Pee Wee from East Coast in Tracy in 1983. My intelligence was up to date on him and when he said his name I knew who he was. I made immediate plans to stab him. Oldman, who was my neighbor, made a knife out of plastic and sent it to me. I was the tier tender and planned on spearing him the following morning when I came out to pour the milk.
The next morning I went down to his cell, the knife tied to a broomstick, hoping to catch him asleep. When I got there he was up doing Salat. He was a Muslim. He stood up and came to the bars.
“How you doing this morning, brotha?”
