AMERIKKKA’S NIGHTMARE (an excerpt)
Chapter 2 from Thug Nation, a novel by Contel Bradford
Gerald escaped the crime scene but he wasn’t a free man. He was holed up in the roach-infested shack he called a home, trapped in a prison of his own tortured thoughts. The TV couldn’t conjure a picture, so he had to listen to the news. Gerald tuned in for the whole 45-minute broadcast. Slightly annoyed that the man he robbed and killed two hours ago didn’t warrant a mention. But that was Detroit. Where murder played out like competitive sport, and not all violent death was considered news-worthy. Shit happens and the world turns.
Thinking he could make a few dollars off the sale of the stolen vehicle, Gerald drove over to Marti’s chop shop. The boys agreed on the value, but couldn’t risk re-tagging it — not with all the blood stained over the door. So Gerald had to wipe away the prints, ditch the car on the side of the road, and take the loss.
The last bit of his salvation sat right there on that battered coffee table. Seated on the dingy, sunken sofa, Gerald somberly crumbled the popcorn buds beneath his calloused fingers, unable to delight in that wonderful aroma he so loved to inhale. Rolling that blunt was nowhere near as fun as it should’ve been. Perhaps it could ease the pain — just a little. He tried to maximize the effectiveness by chasing the THC with a 40-ounce bottle of beer. The other side of anxiety was depression, and the combination of intoxicants only made him feel worse. Half way through the bottle, he all but damned himself for taking the stranger’s life. Although he seemed to live a life free of remorse, his conscience was very much alive and unwell.
It had been a while since Gerald last fired a pistol. Even longer since he’d committed murder. He left that life behind in fleeing from Chicago — or so he thought. Gerald was blessed to leave the city, but the streets didn’t leave him much of a choice when he caught two hot ones in the leg — the same damn leg! The impact dropped him where he stood, and before he could crawl to safety, he was forced to meet death face to face, the eye of the reaper starring back from the barrel of Pedro’s pistol.
The ongoing feud between their sets finally boiled over to a vicious gang brawl. Gunfire hailed across one of the city’s most dangerous neighborhoods as both sides dueled with gats, bats, and whatever they could grip their hands around. Gerald’s Folks weren’t too accurate that day, but Pedro’s Peoples were deadly efficient. It was Pedro’s aim that left Gerald virtually incapacitated, bleeding and seemingly dying on the concrete. Eliminating a rival of his caliber from the equation would be a huge notch for the greater Peoples nation. He had every justification to hate the man. To see him dead and end him right there on the spot. But he just couldn’t squeeze the trigger. For some inexplicable reason, Pedro had a sudden change of heart.
With the pistol firmly locked on Gerald’s chest, Pedro warned, “Crawl your ass outta here man. Don’t let me see you anywhere around this bitch. Not in my hood. Not in the streets. Not anywhere in the Chi. You boys is fuckin’ done, son!”
Gerald built a reputation on bold and brazen. The type to never back down from a fight. But he was no fool either. Pedro and his peeps were cruel enough to knock on the door and shoot him dead just for answering it. Claiming he went back on his word to justify their twisted actions. Gerald couldn’t keep living like this. He especially couldn’t continue to place his grandmother in harm’s way. In this world, the closest loved ones became targets by mere association.
Though initially reluctant, Gerald took Uncle Jesse up on his offer to relocate. A room in his home and more importantly, the seeds of a new beginning. Oddly enough, it was almost like he’d never left home. Detroit was a mirror image of his former city. The year was 1992 and gang banging spread like a plague ravaging its way across the Midwest. Damn near every building on every corner had been tagged with graffiti representing numerous sets, much of the symbolism very familiar to him.
Gerald arrived in the D with a straight and narrow focus. Naturally, he made a few new contacts in the Folks network, but managed to keep to himself, for the most part. Within two months, he landed his first legitimate gig busting suds at a popular restaurant in downtown Detroit. The work was tedious and paid pennies. Gerald saw it as a form of modern slavery that probably should’ve been illegal. At the same time, that job gave him a sense of worth and independence. Better yet, it kept him away from the malicious streets.
As the employment stint continued, Gerald met Terri, a bright-eyed, short-haired hostess with plenty of ass and attitude. The two of them hit it off with ease and in no time became a couple. Together they saved their hard earned funds and moved to a home in West Detroit. The rent was affordable, and if they stayed on top of them, the bills were manageable. Truly in love, Gerald and Terri made plans of a prosperous future, a life bustling with joy, wealth, and youngins to nurture as she became pregnant after just four months.
Little Kayel was a little over a year old when an old friend named chaos began to fracture her parents’ relationship. While Gerald was spending more time with local affiliates, Terri found the attention she’d been seeking in the arms of another. The topic of infidelity lead to domestic disputes, some of which became quite violent. One too many black eyes and busted lips resulted in Terri packing up and taking their child to live with her mother. From that point on, she and Gerald became bitter enemies, entangled in a brutal custody dispute and all out ‘fuck you’ battle with legal implications. Terri had no problem proving that Gerald wasn’t a suitable parent. His criminal record was blemished with a slew of unsavory charges, marking him a career fuck up by Friend of The Court standards.
Gerald received his first paycheck shortly after the court ruled in Terri’s favor. Well over half of his bi-weekly wages were allocated to child support. Redirected straight to Terri’s bank account, the new beneficiary of his hard work. There was no way he could survive at this pace. No way he’d keep slaving for pennies while funding Terri’s fuckery fueled shenanigans. Gerald knew for a fact that she spent more of that money on herself than she did Kayel.
With no reliable transportation, Gerald lost the job and chose to secure his next gig in the streets instead. But where would he start? Who could he actually turn to? He was never the prolific dope slanger like many of his thug friends. Back in Chicago, a single arrest for three grams of marijuana was enough to keep him away from the distribution hustle. Selling dope simply came with too much jail time. So Gerald figured to get his the best he knew how. By taking from the next. Man or woman. Young or old. Strong to the feeble. “I gots ta get mine, so I’ma take yours.” was the new motto.
Dubbed ‘G-Dogg’ by the streets, Gerald was the persona of Amerikkka’s most terrifying nightmare — young with brown skin, sagging pants, raggedy cornrows, and not a single solitary fuck to give. Throw in the constellation of gang tattoos with an incriminating rap sheet to match, and Gerald gave the white folk plenty reason to roll up the car windows and clutch their purses and wallets when parading through Detroit. This was his life and he loathed every inch of it.
Contel Bradford is a mystical and complex individual. You can attempt to unravel some of the mystery by visiting his author site at countkrewpublications.com.
