So bedlam ensued... we preferred conflict over conciliation. The house was approached -- and the G.D.'s were opening fire first. Creating a conflagration of bullets seeking any living being for an entry would to make a home for itself. It was Fallujah in Illinois.
People were ducking and firing. That's the moment you realize street soldiers are not the trained soldiers of the military. Gangbangers act like they're the best shots in the world and would rather have a selfie taken of them elegantly firing in photographically mastered art shots over hitting anyone. Gun over the head. Gun behind the back.
TOO MANY MOVIES -- that they don't realize the shots in movies are set up to look awesome.
And they're not really shooting at their cast members. This gun blazing art-form usually results in the enemy not getting hit. It's better to look cool firing the gun than nab a target. Everyone likes to look at each other, hoping they saw that awesome shot that sent the bullet five states over and nowhere near the house that was intended to be hit.
Now for those really wanting to clip a target -- they won't do it in a pack of pretentious vanity shooters, they'll do it by themselves in the cold of a Chicago night with no one to impress. And the unsuspecting target will never see them coming. That's why the mafia's tactics scared so many. They wanted you dead, the sent a ghost to kill you.
This video about sums up the art-of-gangsta shooting
In this Monet Lisa melee of looking great at taking a shot that wouldn't hit an elephant at ten feet, there was no hits and a no reduction in the enemy's man count. There were not assiduous in their shooting... they were ludicrous.
PARTY TIME IN STUPIDVILLE
So what do you do after a block is lit up like the fourth of July? You hold a celebration that praises the best-looking shot and loss of ammunition. Pictures abounded of poses with guns and swords. Hamburgers grilled to forty-ounce succulence.
And because of the magnitude of weaponry that went off in vain. Doors got kicked in. Streets got blockaded off. The cops were on the hunt. Some of the guys got arrested. And add a little alcohol to the high of a gunfight and you got stupid thinking. We decided we were going to gun up, go into the courthouse, and if the bail was too high for our guys... we were gonna stick up the deputies and free our own guys from the courthouse on their own recognizance.
Lucky as a blessing from above -- charges were dropped or bonds were low enough to pay the piper. I had a gun in front and one in back. Due to my skeletal size, it was also a blessing that the deputies didn't see the frames of the guns beneath my shirts. Months later, metal detectors were added. I don't know if wind blew back to the administrators of the jail, or it was happenstance they got installed after we thought we'd play knights of the dumb table and forcefully bond out our brethren.
COP KILLA
The heat was thick. It was stifling. I was going to take no chances so I was going to a part of Chicago where there was no heat. I was going to run away from the foster home I was in. Armed with a 9mm and an extra clip. The Vice Lords were holed up in our own Bonnie and Snide hideout. We'd move out during the morning hours like good little cockroaches. I didn't know who was wanted for what -- the grapevine was saying some of us including me were wanted for attempted murder. That numerous people were shot. Don't trust ghetto speculation -- it means prepare for the worst, hope for the best.
Except one thing -- I needed to collect some stashed cash and a few guns at the foster home. A Vice Lord that did the best he could to walk and talk at the same time, and played a balancing act of bad brain cells, was going to drive me. He had a headlight out. In the world of crime -- that was as dangerous as a rival gangbanger shooting at you. Broken headlights meant you just provided a first-class pull over call to any police looking for a reason to pull you over.
I told the grease-pit VL that was driving to stay off the main roads. What does he do? Yeah, drove on the main road. As luck liked to spank my arse from time-to-time -- a cop got behind us. So I told No-Brain to speedily turn the corner so I could chuck the gun.
What does turd swamp do?
Pulls over on the main road. So then I vociferously tell basket-face to lean back in his seat when the cop approaches the driver's side so I can shoot the imperious cop in the chest.
What does missing brain cell locator do?
Actually it was I with the stupid idea
Sits forward in the seat, clutching the steering wheel. It's go time. I proceed to jump out of the car with the gun to blast the cop -- THIS LOOKS LIKE A GOOD CLIFFHANGER FOR NEXT WEEK...
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