YNs– Block Games

1988

Balloons lifted towards the sky in full glory. The happiness of the event which grew thousands of athletes to perform at the zenith of their talents enlivened the world. The opening of the Olympic Games in Seoul, South Korea pushed capo Hines Dawson, 34, to pick up the phone and dial. On the other line, capo Wayson Goss, 36, picked up the phone. Hines lived on the West Side and Goss resided on the East Side.

“Hey, old timer.”

“Hey.”

“What do you think these games are going to bring?” Dawson asked.

“I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“They just started opening them. No competition yet.”

“What’s up?”

“I wanted to see if you wanted to have our own games.”

“A what now?”

“Games. Our own Olympic Games, right here in Wilmington, Delaware.”

“You’re crazy.”

“I am. But that doesn’t have to impede on the spirit of competition.”

“So what do you have in mind?” Goss asked.

“I was thinking about cooking the product, cutting and forming the product, seeing how many packs get moved, what blocks and squares get lifted, just a few ideas.”

“Okay, rival cliques coming together to play games…I’m interested. I’ll tell my midlevel hustlers and runners to get to work.”

“Play.”

“Yes, but we’re getting paid. There’s going to be some bronze, silver, and gold earnings off of this.”

“Alright, then.”

They hung up the phones. That next day, the couriers and the mid-to-high level hustlers all had their eyes focused on cooking up the work, even if these remained games. $100,000 had been put up by those involved and everyone agreed that the money would be given to the strongest and most swift. In another week, the games had been set up in the streets.

Dawson looked at the two challengers. Goss looked on as well. Victor Welsh, aka DJ As Well the street DJ joined. “Now, this is the rudimentary way of preparing the product. You know what to do with the wrist, let’s see who can whip it fast enough with enough of the right panache to make it go right. Go!”

Two couriers, Fenix Mudge, 18 and Carson Raslow, 19, took their respective bowls and swirled and rotated their own products. Like chefs in a French Michelin Star kitchen, they kept whipping.

“And stop!” They waited about thirty seconds for it to settle and then Yukon Smithee, one of the top earners for a third clique who decided to be the judges of the events, evaluated the two rivals. When the product reached the bottom the most, it would be set for the next phase. It appeared as if Mudge had edged Raslow. Points got added to Dawson’s team. Goss looked on with a clear-eyed view.

“Now that we have that Pyrex vision, it’s time to take to the stove. This is when the catalyst for the work begins. You each have thirty minutes to cook the work until it’s ready rock. Begin!”

Mudge and Raslow looked at the gold pots and began to place their glassware in them. With the agility of a gazelle, they worked on separate burners. The product began to heat for both of them. It bubbled and began to form a paste. With the mixture of Raslow’s own product, it became sort of gummed up in the pot. On the other hand, Mudge looked like it began to form tiny rocks in the bottom of the Pyrex in the pot. Raslow’s yield looked much smaller than Mudge’s. He conceded victory in the cooking phase.

“Okay, now we’ve got something going here. Make sure you put those squares in the freezer,” As Well announced. Some light chuckles abounded. “Alright, now. After we bag up the work, we’re going to go to the block and see the street warriors pitch it. We’re going to go to the actual block and sell that rock. We’re going to evaluate how many rocks get sold around the clock in fifteen minute intervals.”

DJ As Well and the three crews went out on the sunny summer day. Blue skies invited huge puffs of clouds to enter the fray. Clientele walked around with an air of not knowing what was going on…they just craved for the rock.

“When I say go, you’re going to procure a potential client. Whoever sells all of their rock will be awarded the winner in this event,” the DJ outlined. “Go!”

So off they went, two gangsters who would not be too friendly towards one another competed to seek a six figure pay day they could achieve in a few months. But the day called them. It called them to rise up and bring forth an effort that would sustain them both mentally and physically. The third party members looked on. Ziggly, Rothbart, Sealant, all watched in amazement as these two hustlers found funds based on their work. It seemed as if Mudge had bested Raslow again but the clients didn’t give a damn about the quality of the work, they just wanted to sup from the cup of sweet, twisted addiction.

Raslow had gained six clients to Mudge’s two. It neared the second for them to stop their dealings.

“Time,” DJ As Well called. “It looks like Raslow has taken this round. But we still have another fifteen minutes to see who the winner of this game will be.”

The DJ yelled “Go!” again and the clients flocked to Mudge. In the time that Raslow’s customers had come to him, and even though he had better product, Mudge managed to best him with an impressive eight customers who sought him for his wares.

“Okay, we have a tie.” The third party members instituted a sudden death overtime. Whomever courted a potential client first would win the game.

Mudge lifted a hand in the air and brought it down with force. He angled to the side and pulled out his product. A group of clients swarmed him. Raslow put a hand in the air and no one came to him. He furrowed his brow and spit in the dirt between the crevices of the concrete.

“Mudge wins again!” DJ As Well shouted. “Raslow, if you want to keep your earnings, you’re free to do that.” Raslow scrunched up his face.

“Hey, how come he gets all the wins?! I’m out here working, playing, whatever….”

The leader of the third party, Quim, 36, looked at Raslow. “You came away with a win in the first round. Sudden death is sudden death, young man.”

Raslow continued despite the back-to-back lessons he had to learn.

“Our next game is to see who can haggle the best price from a plug.

Each contestant will have exactly five minutes to get the price of 17.5 down to at least 12 for the reup. We have not spoken with either of these gentlemen and the time is ticking.”

Mudge pulled out his brick phone. Raslow did the same.

“Hey, Papi!” Mudge called into the phone. “Let’s get straight to it. I need a ki. But I need it to go down some. My capo asking for it.”

“What’s ‘some’?”

“17.5.”

“Ahh….”

“I mean I can definitely stretch out the work and make it double up.”

*****

“Hey, Alejandro! What is your daughter’s name?” Raslow asked.

“Samantha,” Alejandro mentioned.

“I want to make money so you get money. The only way I can do it is if you do something for me….”

“What’s that?”

“Take your 17.5 and lower it to ten. Capo’s calling.”

“No, no, me amigo. I can’t do that. Then my boss will be up my ass.”

“But you're the connect. You move on your own, no?”

“No, I mean I do…but?”

“But what?”

“I still answer to jefe who’s not even in this country.”

*****

“I don’t think I can do that, Fenix.”

“What’s the problem Jorge?”

“I’m getting backed up with all of these shipments. The cops just busted some of my best guys down in Florida. I have to keep it at the same price, 17.5.”

“Alright, alright, alright. Let’s say I take just two ki’s and I’ll split the difference with you on the next run. How’s that sound?”

A pause over the phone sounded like a ball of time circling the drain of eternity.

“I can do it.”

“Say it again!” Mudge brought the phone up to DJ As Well’s ear.

“Another win for Mr. Mudge!”

The two crackthletes rested for a moment. The amount of time that sat on the ground drinking Gatorade gave them time to get their bearings. Raslow slipped slowly on the curb. Mudge stood. He turned to Raslow.

“You know this is all a game, right?”

“You would say that since you’re winning.” He got up from the curb and started walking to the other side of the street. The humidity had cranked up ever since the sun left the scene. Mudge shrugged. He finished his sports drink and kept moving also.

“Now, for the final event. This is a hood summer biathlon. Each man will have to pick up six bricks, rush them to the stashhouse and fire a pistol at the target of mutual opponents. Your time begins now!”

The two men looked like John Henry struggling in the summer evening. A police car raced by, its occupants oblivious to what the men struggled to do. Raslow continued to push with his grip slipping on the plastic wrapped God’s pillows. They then journeyed to their respective places in the stashhouse. It looked like a run down house with little electricity or water works to speak of at all. The targets stood about five yards away in the front room where dropoffs resided usually. They were cleared for the twelve bricks used in the game. After sweating through these games all day and also being at odds with one another, they felt the swift hand of completion beckon at their mind’s door.

They withdrew their 1911 pistols. Only one shot could be heard. Mudge emerged from the stashhouse. He tucked his firearm into his pants.

“Wait, where’s….” DJ As Well looked into the side of the stashhouse and saw Raslow’s lifeless body.

“Goddamn, Fenix, you didn’t have to kill him. Because he would beat you for once? Because he could’ve won?! You spiteful son of a bitch, it was all games.”

“But these are the streets. I don’t care if he won. I put in work. I’m not playing any silly games anymore.”

“But you just killed a man. A good young man who was trying to build a dream home with his earnings from the game,” DJ As Well explained.

Mudge sniffed and spit. “Well, he don’t got that to worry about no more,” He adjusted his weapon. He called for other runners Triggy Tisdale and Ikey Gott to rid the body of the stashhouse. As they carried him, they looked at Raslow’s cooling body.

“What? You need an engraved invitation to haul out a corpse?” he wondered. DJ As Well departed from the scene and looked at the crowd.

“It’s alright. A gun didn’t fire,” he tried to quell.

They looked up to the sky. Large orange men descended down onto them. Three exact. With their gargantuan size and bright green eyes, they tore through Tisdale and Gott. They seized every opportunity to escape but were stuck inside the enclosed space. The orange men kept pounding away with their heavy feet. Each stomp seemed to produce a sound wave. DJ As Well and the other spectators had evaporated like water on a hot coin in the sun.

Mudge withdrew his pistol once more and started firing at them. The shots circled around the heads of the three men. They absorbed the shots and continued to leer towards him. He fired until the pistol clicked and he threw it away and began to run for the exits. He tried to flee to one; it was blocked. He made an attempt to go down to the other exit. Blocked. He finally tried to go through the attic of the place but the last large orange man stopped his efforts.

All three of them encroached on him and moved slowly, their feet stomping the boards.

“Do what you gotta do, goddamn it. I don’t care anymore. I didn’t want to come to this world. I just wanted to get some money. Whatever you are, you're not going to kill me because I’m already dead.” They devoured him.

The rest of the evening felt kind of scattered after that.