Sunday, January 27, 2013

Shotties On Deck: Undaunted At The Sight Of His Own Slaughter

Dino Ynostroza. Written Jan 2012
              An account of: Approx midnight, Mission 14 Muni 2009
             "Undaunted at the sight of his own slaughter"

            It was the ending to a good day. My first semester at college had ceased, and the weathered brackets that surrounded my teeth were scheduled to be removed in a week. Triumph was running through our veins, boy kings on the rise.  Oliver and myself successfully sped our skateboards from top of the hill Daly City, into Union Square. Full filling our main goal of not breaking our necks, it was now time for our next challenge. Making it back to the burbs. The sun had long gone down and my cutoff at the knee corduroy shorts chillingly sat above the knee. The armpit holes in my Betty Boop t shirt were venting ice cold air directly to my chest, turning my nipples into ice cubes.  My chest was frozen, making it hard to catch breathe. All was gravy on the turkey however. How could one really have a care in the world? My fingers latched upon eight bucks worth of taco bell, a few cigarettes, and youth in a tight grasp.
Viciously inhaling my meal quickly, the bus came in short time. Shuffling to the back we not-so surpisingelyy caught some seats in the very last row. As the wheels start oscillating I gaze up at the stars, their soft rays lighting up the city streets. Envisioning how on earth the 5 bean burritos looked in my stomach, we began our journey. To my side sat an African- American middle-aged man. Rocking black Stacy Adam snakeskin oxfords (a tenderloin staple), and black jeans. His wilted Giants sweatshirt sat 3 sizes to big, with an 850 Bryant toiletries pack escaping the stomach pocket. From behind his wretched facial hair he began to speak, “ if y’all start taggin it better look tight, cuz this is my bus..FILLMOE!! We assured him that we were solid at the moment, and we no longer engaged in that type of activity. Attempting to behave casual amongst society’s messiness, I exclaimed, “ it’s ice city breh, we chillin “. Our obvious discouragement of any more advice was apparent, he remained silent. Death, destruction, filth and greed thrived ones immediate surroundings, nurturing all it inhibited, probably everywhere else too… As usual my mind starts to drift back into the expansiveness of the sky.
“There’s no balance in second guessing oneself, far too intentional in fine tuning my frequency. Man, a machine of algorithms (behaviorism!). Whom or what is the catalyst in my life I long for? Stop thinking about what one should do, stop planning, stop stressing. Desperately seeking my next move, what direction is my soul heading? Control is needed, to many individuals aimlessly roaming. Opportunist. LU-ike o.m.g. foreally, the past holds all the keys to the future. Take away the bourgeoisie’s check book and what is he? Who am I? What are ones true aspirations? The worlds filthy, somebody gotta rinse it”.
            I quickly snap out of this conversation with myself, just in time to notice the three heavily suspect Latino individuals beginning to board the bus.  The obvious leader of their mob was no more then seventeen years old. Before reaching the top of the stairs he anxiously screams at the top of his lungs, “ SHOTWELL MOB NIGGA, SHOTTIES ON DECK!! Should I laugh, or fear for my life? (Becoming far to often of question asked).  The bold juveniles took a seat, swagging the rest of their forty ounces, tossing the bulky bottles to the floor.  Indicative in their portrayal of the gangster persona, these boys watched Shottas one too many times. I sat slightly stoned; I don’t think I could emulate that much anger. A foolish temperament pronounced, rather then his “ monarch of the streets “ intended impression. Pretty scared to move however, who is ever in the mood to get robbed after all? I just got my first iphone last week for Christ sake, had to bag a lot of groceries to afford that baby. Clenching my phone closely I tried not to make eye contact.
            “ Where you from old man”, he asks the man of about fifty years. “ Fillmoe, but I usually stay up in them loins lil niga, I got kids older then you”, he replies. “No disrespect gramps”, says the boy, “ we jus vibin. Have you heard of us though? We the Shotwell mob, hollow tips and hoes is all we liiiiiiive!!! Never hesitated to let them thangs fly!”
            Gramps wasn’t too impressed, “ you boys might be a tad to ambitious”. “ Like what you mean old man, I don’t get it?” Just as an interesting display of intergenerational wisdom was about to unfold, a woman boards the bus, instantly grabbing Shottie mobs attention.  “ Waz hahhnin lil mama?” Ignores him. A woman of roughly 300 pounds with caramel brown skin, slowly strolling up the steps sporting pink everything, and I mean everything. Freshly purchased pink suede Bebe jumpsuit, embellished with pink hair, lipstick, eye shadow, and lashes. A (huge) bra, hot tips and Phat Farm sneakers. Perking her lips, soulfully bouncing to the back singing “Soul of a Coke Dealer “, by Andre Nikatina. Shotwell turns wide-eyed evaluating her as if he had dreamt the previous night about the same woman. Quickly turning to his accomplices, “ tonight’s my lucky night boys “. He trots in her direction salivating at her appearance. Suddenly he had a gag induced speech impediment as he teetered back and forth reaching for the wall to get plum. Pinky cracks the seal on a pint of crown royal black. He yells again, “ what’s hahhhin lil mama?!” She presumably lays her eyes upon his, then pulls out a stack of pictures. “ I got me a man, I don’t need a child to take care of. “ Woah, woah, pump your brakes shawty”, he exclaims. “ I aint looking for a Barbie doll, turn out the big ones too, keep it real Shotwell. I’m still growing feeme but I can ride the thickness, nahm’sayyin”.  (starts to rap immensely off key) “Shotwell baby yea we can snort bricks, pop pills and smoke kush!!! Raised a gangster I’m all about the thrill, techs and nine millies, all I do is kill!” High fiving his equally weak in stature henchmen, pinky sits unimpressed. “ Where’s your strap then lil daddy?” I got the glock and the 12 gauge at the house but for now I just got this. Pulling out of his pocket at best a three inch knife, the voluptuous woman laughed, “ oh hell nah, you clowin on the real, best be koo lil daddy.” Pinky holds out a crumbled photograph. “ Dantrel is getting out in a month, my man just beat the wrap on a double murder, real niggas get down like that “. “ Dantrel from the Moe?” Randomly asks the old man. “ Yessir “, she pridefully answers. “ That’s a good man, a really good man.  Glad that the cops couldn’t pin any bullshit on him. “ Hell of a man you got there”, rants the elderly man. Shotwell moves in closer to the conversation. “ Comon now lemme see them big brown thangs mama”, smiling ear to ear. Pinky laughs, “ haha lil daddy you can look but not touch”. Eyeballs permitted to wander but touching strictly prohibited. Shotwell  proceeds to spin in circles radically stomping his tarnished, oversized boots. Uttering a scream as if he didn’t receive his baby bottle at a sufficient temperature, nothing remained on his face but a silly deliberate glacial expression. Pressing to get her point across, the fuchsia duchess of bosomy, the sultana of all that is plus size beauty, reaches in her purse. “ OWE MY GOD MAMA WHAT THE FUCK YOU KEEPING IT REAL FLY!!! Boorishly shrieks Shotwell mob as she flashes her pistol. It wasn’t exactly a firearm that say, an average women would carry. While on her walk home through a gentrified part of town after work. No, this hammer was a far more fitting accommodation. Strongly clutching the ruby encrusted blush handle, aiming the vibrant pink 38’s humble barrel obsequiously between the eyeballs of the boy. Shotwell mob chuckled inconsequentially, undaunted at the sight of his own slaughter. The bus was silent; the loudness of the city ceased to exist, a split second vacuum in time. “ Comon babes stop woofin, I know you wanna ride the anaconda”, with little hesitation. “ BANG!!” She yells. Everyone on the bus jerks. Shotwell doesn’t move a muscle, his vanity unwounded, standing soldier like, shoulder’s back, chin up. His hands out pleading as the bus comes to a halt. Pinky calmly sits smirking. He keeps yelling from the sidewalk as people are boarding the bus. Pinky suddenly stands up and whips out her ginormous ashy breasts, hanging them out the muni window. As the bus driver hits the gas, we hear his voice faint away. “ Shotties mob niggah! Shot. Well. MOBBBBBBBB!!!!”


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